


Lilith Reborn

by clearascountryair



Series: Tales of Lilith [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 127,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearascountryair/pseuds/clearascountryair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eponine, clinging onto life with everything she has, sees a man with a heartbeat more frail than her own, she realizes that there may still be hope for her soul. But the world is unchanged and God is dead. Even together, they are alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my beta, Mel.
> 
> This story draws from multiple canons of Les Miserables, ranging from the book to various films and the musical. Also, the first line is intentionally made reminiscent of one of Eponine's final lines from the book.

Oh, what a sweet happiness!  What absolute bliss!  She could still feel the place where his lips had pressed against her forehead and in that moment, Éponine was glad.  Perhaps she had died loved after all.  The notion had seemed more and more of a fantasy with every passing day, but the lingering warmth on her forehead told her that at least one of her childish fantasies had had the kindness to turn to truth.  Perhaps the God of her childhood had taken mercy on her. Perhaps she would open her eyes and find that she had somehow found the path to salvation.  Perhaps she was with that God, who she was sure had abandoned her so long ago.  And, in that moment, she felt only the warmth of that final kiss. In that moment, her pain was gone and she was happy with her death.

Arms, big and strong, slipped under her and she heard the sound of men talking, laughing, cheering.  She could hear Maman yelling for her to come away from the men and to go and fetch Azelma. _I will open my eyes_ , Éponine thought, _and I will be home again._

Home. It had been so many years since she had a true home.  But she could hear it, she could smell it.  She would open her eyes and find herself the pampered beauty of that old inn in Montfermeil.  Yes, yes this would be true.  If God was good, she’d returned to the life she once had, back when life had any meaning at all. She had no doubt that she could once more learn to deal with a spoiled life.  She would love it this time, she would appreciate it and understand its beauty.  She would be so happy and, oh, how jealous Azelma would be if she could see her now.

But the arms slipped out from under her and the sounds of her childhood faded. _It is no matter_ , she thought, _I am at peace_.  And there was silence.

Minutes, hours, or perhaps several lifetimes later, her peace, however, was shattered by a report outside.  She was waking, but this was not her childhood.  Never in her pampered youth had she beheld such pain and such misery.  Her body seemed to burn as it had never burnt before _. Perhaps I am as damned as I once thought_.  And yet she knew that, even in the darkest depths of Hell, there would be no pain as excruciating as that which suddenly raced through her body. She wanted desperately to scream, but the effort of parting her lips only added more pain.  She was lost in darkness, alone.  _Unloved_. And then the darkness left as her eyes sprung open and she found herself in that tiny cafe where her Marius spent so much of his time.

But she was dead.  Her Marius had held her, bleeding in his arms, and he had kissed her so softly upon her head. She had finally escaped her pitiful existence and what sort of God would send her back?  The pain of her realisation nearly matched that of the burning of her belly, as though she had been torn to shreds from the inside out.

With all her strength, she opened her mouth to call someone, anyone who could help, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a rasp too soft for anyone to hear among the guns that rang outside her Marius’s cafe.  _I am alone_ , she thought.  _Perhaps this is my very own Hell_.  From her left, she heard a soft shuffle and somehow managed to turn her head.  A man stood in the cafe, staring at her, his white hair and knowing eyes telling her at once that that he was not just another of her Marius’s friends.

_I know your face_ , she thought, and almost wished that she was indeed alone.  She tried to speak, but could not.  The man only looked at her.  _And you know mine._   Fear flooded her veins.  He knew her and she knew he would loathe her.  How could he not?  And, for the foolishness of her child self and the selfishness of her parents, he would surely let her die.

But then his hand was on her cheek and his hush voice begged her not to move. She felt true hope, truer than she had ever felt it before.  Perhaps this man could help her. 

“Monsieur Joly!” he called, removing his hand and going to the door to shout once more.

_Don’t leave_.  She could feel the tears coming to her eyes.  _Aren’t you the man who goes and saves the wretched?_

But he returned to her with a young man by his side.  She wanted to ask for her Marius – she did not know anything of this man – only that he sometimes walked with her Marius. The two men began to speak to her, but their voices were lost in the cacophony of destruction. She did not fight as the men removed her shirt, it had fallen open long before and, wherever she was going, she had no need to hide.  She did not fight until the old man pried open her lips and pushed a folded cloth between her teeth.  Had she the strength, she would have bitten him.  But he stroked her arm with a large hand and the younger man poured something over her belly.

She was glad for the cloth then.

The old man propped her up and held her close as the young man wrapped an almost clean linen around her.  The world around her spun and she desperately wanted to tell them that their efforts were futile.  She would die in this Hell before going on to the next.  Silence had fallen beyond the walls of the cafe. Or at least the guns had stopped. Voices still flooded the air around her, but one could not be distinguished from the next. Éponine was drowning in a sea of murmurs and could find no escape.  And then a voice reached her.  Clear and sweet and young and innocent and as melodic as it always was.  She reached out her hand to pull the singer close to her.  He was so close.  He was in her reach. But, as one, the two men reached for her arm and pushed it back beside her.

A second voice broke through the chaos.  But there was no melody to this one.  Only terror.  The men beside her looked towards the door.  There was the sound of the other men moving rapidly and the second voice called out once more, calling that name that was forever in her bleeding, failing heart.  There were whispers from either side of her.  The young man tied off her bandages and ran to see what was happening outdoors and the old man lifted her in his arms.

“Mademoiselle!”

Outside her brother continued to sing.

“Mademoiselle Jondrette! Mademoiselle Thenardier!”  These sounds meant nothing.

A shot rang out and men’s voices shouted, but the boy’s melody still swam the street.

“You must stay here.  You must not move!”

She needed to go to him.  The child needed her.

“Stay hidden, child, and you may be saved.” 

She turned up to face him.  _Save my brother,_ she wanted to say. But he grabbed her chin and locked eyes with her.

“You will not move.  I will come for you when it is over.  Have no fear, poor child.” And then Monsieur Fauchelevent was gone and Éponine was alone in a corner, a shelf blocking her from the door.

A second shot sang and someone screamed her brother’s name.  She had never before realised how horrible the name could sound to her ears.  There was a moment of silence.  No more screaming.  No more gunfire. No more singing.

But, as they always did, the voices returned to the men.  They were louder than they had been before. And angrier.  So very, very angry.  And the guns began to shoot once more.

She hugged herself tightly in that corner.  Guns didn’t scare her.  She remembered the way the gun had felt in her hand when Montparnasse had dragged her fingers across it.  “It is the man who does the killing,” he had told her, kissing her shoulder until her trembling ceased.  “The gun is no more than a method.”  She had flopped down on his bed in response and, foolishly, asked if he was that man.  A darkness had clouded him then and he had taken her by the wrist and told her to leave. She tried to picture his face, but the sounds of men dying, men losing their bravery, now flooded her head. _But would all these men be dying, ‘Parnasse, if the guns were not tearing them apart?  It is not a man inside me, killing me cruelly.  Only a bullet._

The door to the cafe burst open and, for a moment, she shut her eyes _.  Men are more frightening than any gun, their favourite weapon always upon them._ Montparnasse had told her that as well when he had found her wandering the streets not so many months ago. But she opened her eyes and saw men with almost familiar faces came through the cafe.  Not a single eye fell upon her as they raced upstairs. _But where is my Marius?_ She wanted to scream.  _Have you let them kill my love?_   The door burst open once more as soldiers filed into the cafe.  She wanted to reach out and kill them, kill them all for killing her beloved.

_But you are as guilty_ , another voice whispered in her head _.  You led him here.  You have killed him as much as he who held the gun_. It took all her strength not to scream as she watched the soldiers turn their guns to the ceiling and heard the bodies fall above them.  She was wrong, so very, very wrong.  A gun was very terrifying indeed, especially in the hands of a man.

Silence fell and, even with all the soldiers in the room, the girl was alone. And then the floorboards creaked. A weight shifted above the soldiers and she watched as they swiftly disappeared up the stairs. She waited for the guns to sound again, but before they could, another sound emerged - that of heavy, uneven footsteps upon a wooden floor.  She watched a lone young man walk upstairs.  She even knew this one’s face.  He was the drunkard, her Marius had told her that.

_Stop, you fool!  Run, run away.  Take me and run away._

But, in truth, she was silent and the drunkard disappeared after the soldiers. And once more then guns sang their song.  She sat there, trembling, clutching her burning body and praying that the soldiers would find her on their way out.  They had killed her love and all those he cared for, why not her as well?  But after a time, the soldiers came back down the stairs and walked out the door.  Away in the distance, a bird began singing, as if to make up for the end of the guns’ song.  She closed her eyes and prayed for wings.  _Make me a bird and let me fly from this pain_.

But the girl’s back was only skin and bones, nothing that would enable her to fly. She bit her lip hard to stop the cry from leaving her mouth.  A drop of blood ran down her chin, but it was nothing to her.  Her body was already caked in its own blood. What was another drop?

There was nothing but silence in the cafe.  Old Fauchelevent was not coming for her.  _I’m no less pathetic, no less pitiful than your lark._ It was not fair that he would not save her, too.  Hot tears poured down her cheeks and landed on her chest, mixing with the blood congealing there.  Her life was leaking out of her and there was no one there to hear. And so Éponine resolved to save herself.

She did not remember standing and, clutching her side, could not recall why she was standing at the foot of the stairs.  It was not, she knew, a way out.  She needed to leave now, before the soldiers returned. But she didn’t. Her mind could not work so hard just now, it was too busy with the pain.  So, without the help of her mind, she pulled herself up the stairs. When she reached the top, she took in a deep breath.

Three men were lying in the middle of the floor.  A fourth man, the drunkard, had fallen against the wall beside the window.  His eyes were big and brown and looking ahead as though the Virgin herself stood before him. But there was nothing but an empty room.  It was the fifth man, however, who called to her.  The corpse hung out the window, his feet on the floor and his head out in the rising sun.  She walked towards him, stepping lightly over the bodies on the floor.  Her insides tightened painfully as she saw the man who had only just wrapped her wound in clean linen lying there under her foot. But still she kept walking. She knew the face of the man in the window.  She had often heard her Marius talking with his friends about their leader.  “He is not even a man.  Where we have flesh, he has marble.  I don’t even think he bleeds.”

But, oh, how his blood soaked through his shirt!  Inexplicably, she reached out to run her hand across his face. It looked like true flesh. It was even still warm to her touch.  She ran her finger first along his jaw and then his forehead.  It was then she felt the flutter of his eyelash against her wrist. She withdrew her hand, but he grasped her other wrist.  A weak grasp, as weak as any she had ever felt, but still the life in him grabbed her. She sucked in her breath, momentarily forgetting the pain still pulling apart her insides.  And then she was pulling him in through the window and propping him against her.

“I will help you, monsieur, I am stronger than I look,” but the half corpse made no reply.  Carefully, she dragged him to the top of the stairs.  The soldiers would be back soon and she needed to be gone. But a debt was a debt. Her Marius had been there because of her.  He had fought because of her and he had died because of her.  She robbed him of a life and gave God a soul that he had not expected.  _You owe me._   She had been unable to save her Marius, but this statue - he, she could save.

She wrapped her arms around his middle and pulled with all her might. Tears were once more streaming freely down her face by the time she reached the top of the stairs. Pulling him down was worse and more than once did she almost fall, but she succeeded.  As quickly as she could, Éponine pulled him from the cafe and into the shadows, willing him not to die.  In the safety the shadows provided her, she breathed. A dark mark was growing on her bandages and once more her head was beginning to spin.  And, only now in the outside air, did she remember her shirt, abandoned in the cafe.  Only her bandages covered her now.  Her eyes welled up again, but this time in shame as she stripped the man of his jacket and wrapped it around herself.

Biting down on her lip, she pulled up the man, slipping her own arm around his waist and placing his arm over her own shoulders.  His head fell limply upon her shoulder.

“You will not die on me, monsieur.”

The man’s eyes fluttered open and she gasped as he stared at her with pain and confusion. 

“You will not die,” she repeated.

He seemed to nod, and then his eyes shut once more.  Silently, Éponine and the statue man went through Paris. Tears ran down her face and the stain across her chest and belly grew, but still she made no sound. They were safe as long as they were silent as the shadows.  But even the shadows, which had once provided her with safety, could only protect her so long.  Pain coursed through her body as her head spun and the man grew heavier and heavier until Éponine could bear it no more.

She sank down against a wall, the body falling beside her, and let herself cry. She had to stifle a scream as she drew her knees to her chest.

“Please let me die,” she whispered.  She stroked the cheek of the dying boy beside her.  “If there was a God, monsieur, I think we would both be very dead.”

“That’s quite the negative outlook on things, sweet ‘Ponine.”

Éponine looked up, but the voice came from the shadows.  It was no matter - she would know that voice anywhere. Anyway, Montparnasse was the only one to ever call her sweet.  No one else would submit themselves to such a lie.

Quickly, Éponine wiped her tears away and stared at the spot from which the voice came.

“What?” she snapped.  “Have you come to mock me while I die?”

The gangly figure stepped out of the shadow and squatted before her. “Do you really think me so cruel?”

She spat at him, but he paid it no mind.

“Come, ‘Ponine.  Leave this corpse to rot with the others.  Let me take you home.”  He reached forward, placing his thumb lightly on the bandage.  Éponine winced.  “We can fix this.”

Éponine shook her head and pressed her injured hand to the dying man’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of his blood mix with her own.  “I can’t, I have to save him.” She willed the tears to stay in her eyes.  “Please, _please_ let me save him.”

The kind assassin - if an assassin could be kind - stood up, looking down at the girl.  “ _Saving_ people isn’t exactly my strongest suit.”

“And me?”

“It’s a fine pair of trousers he has.  And I’m sure that’s his jacket.”

“Montparnasse!”  She was too tired now to be ashamed of the desperation in her voice.

“He’s another one of your pretty little bourgeois boys, sweet ‘Ponine. You’d be wise to forget him.”   When he looked down at her, his eyes were almost soft, holding something akin to pity.

“Fine! I don’t need you,” she told him indignantly.  “I can save him on my own!”

Montparnasse sucked in his bottom lip, contemplating the girl.  With a sad smile, he tipped his hat and turned away.

Éponine choked out a sob.  She would not be left out here alone.  In the past, she may have sat there and watch him retreat, but today he would not abandon her. 

“Montparnasse!”  He wheeled around immediately, his cheeks red with fury.

“Quiet, idiot child!” he hissed, bending down over her.  “Do you want the cops to come to you? Do you want to see another soldier?”

Éponine shook her head and, carefully, brought her good hand to his cheek. They had been such good friends once, her and Montparnasse.  Sometimes they still were.  And sometimes, they forgot.

“‘Parnasse,” she whispered, stroking his cheek.  “‘Parnasse, please, if any of the affection you ever claimed to have for me was real, please, ‘Parnasse, help me save him.”

He looked back at her, eyes wide and vulnerable.  _Why, he’s no more than a boy_ , Éponine thought.  And, for as cold of a heart as Montparnasse wanted people to think he had, it was a boy’s heart nonetheless, and this boy’s heart took pity on the girl who had been his first everything.  Without a word, he pulled Éponine off the ground.  Then, after making sure she was steady, he pulled up the almost-corpse as well.  With the man supported between the boy and the girl, the three continued through the shadows, Montparnasse leading the way.  By the time they stopped, Éponine’s world had grown blurry.

“Where are we?”

Montparnasse stepped away and the man between them fell to the ground. Éponine would have collapsed as well had Montparnasse not grabbed her firmly around the waist. He took one hand and brought it to cradle her face.  It had been so long since he had caressed her with such care.  She let her eyes shut as he held her there.

“Éponine! Éponine, look at me! Listen to me!”

With all her strength, she obeyed.

“You will not speak of this, sweet ‘Ponine.  Nor will I.  You disappeared, thrown into a ditch or the Seine with the others.” Softly, he kissed her cheek. “Be smart, Éponine. Be brave.  And don’t die.  I will know.”  He turned and banged heavily on the door.  She hadn’t even noticed it before.

“‘Parnasse,” she said faintly, but he was gone.

After a moment, the door opened and a tall, old man stood inside. His eyes shifted from the shivering, bleeding girl standing before him to the man dying at her feet. They moved quickly back to the girl, full of concern.  Éponine looked at the old man, standing there in his robes.

_Why, he’s a priest.  ‘Parnasse has brought me to a church._

She smiled as the priest grew fainter.  She only saw his arms shoot out to her as the ground came rushing up.

***

> _My beloved Mère -_
> 
> _I hope this letter reaches you in time. I wouldn’t want you to think I had forgotten your birthday.  What sort of daughter would that make me?  I know that I have not written as often as I should.  After a long day, my fingers are often too sore from that silly needle and can barely hold the pen.  And there have been so many distractions, Mère! I know Papà warned me of all the distractions I would find in Paris, but I was never expecting it like this.  I think Grand-mère thought that getting me a job with a seamstress would help keep me behaved. How could you have deceived her so, Mère?_
> 
> _I doubt Papà would like very much to hear this, but Paris is a city of men, Mère.  There is a cafe not far from where I work and that is where many of these young students congregate.  They have such ideas, Mère, I think they would shock even you! But I fear that if I tell you too much, you’ll whisk me back home or worse - you’ll send me to Nonna. And I don’t think I could stand another summer in Italy._
> 
> _I hope all is well with you and Grand-mère says to wish you to happiest of birthdays.  I send you all of my love and affection._
> 
> _Your most grateful, loving, and obedient daughter,  
>  Musichetta_
> 
> _P.S.My friends, Messieurs Joly and Lesgle, send you their fondest greetings for your birthday._

 

The letter had been sitting on her bedside table for days now.  Since before General Lamarque died. Lesgle had asked her about it the night before last, when he and Joly had snuck into the large apartment after her grandmother had fallen asleep.

“Weren’t you writing this days ago?”  Lesgle had asked, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She had stifled a giggle as he kissed her neck.  “I’ve been distracted.”

“The revolution?”

“ _Your_ revolution.”

Both her boys had laughed softly at that.  Then the three had stood in silence, until Joly muttered an excited “Oh!”

“Oh?” Musichetta had repeated.

Joly had picked a pen off the counter and stood over her letter. “Aren’t we supposed to love who you love?”  And he had placed the pen to the paper.

“Vincent!” she had hissed, breaking free from Lesgle.  But Joly had already put down the pen, grinning at his post-script.

A tear dripped down her cheek at the memory and she quickly brushed it away. To think, that had only been two nights ago!  She had woken up the next morning as her boys silently slipped from her bed before the old lady could awake.

“We’ll be back,” they had told her.  “When all the fighting’s done, we’ll come back and get you.”

“Show me your new world?”  And they had nodded and kissed her softly, each in turn.

But now it was nearly noon and hours had passed since the last gunshot sounded off in the distance.  How the old woman slept through it, she’d never know. 

“We’ll be back,” they had said.  But they weren’t.  Musichetta had stayed up all night, waiting for her boys to come back, but they never did. This time, when the tear leaked down her cheek, she made no move to hide it.  _No_ , she resolved, _I can write Mère again later._ She had so little of her boys. She had written Lesgle a sweet note on his last birthday, but that was all.  There were no long love letters to document the affairs. No pretty sketches done in their likeness.  The closest thing was a stick-figure drawing Grantaire had drawn in the back of one of Joly’s books (to the medical student’s appall).  If the worst had come (although she prayed it had not - it was still quite early, noon’s not so late), this silly little post-script was all she had of her boys.  Two silly men sending her mother their affections.  She reached out for the letter and choked out a little sob that nobody would hear.

“Just come home,” she whispered.  _Please_.  Musichetta closed her eyes and turned her head up to face the ceiling, clutching the letter to her breasts as though the letter itself was proof enough that there were two men out there who loved her and would come back for her.  It had been years since she had truly prayed for anything, but now she sat there, willing the old lady to stay in her room, and she prayed for her boys. “Please,” she begged of whoever was up there, “please send them home to me.”

“Who are you talking to, _mon fifille_?”

Musichetta almost cringed as her grandmother’s voice floated into the room. The old woman seldom called her by her proper name if she could; she saw it as another reminder that her precious daughter had married that “ _méchant italien._ ”

She wondered what her grandmother would say if she told her she was talking to God. Maybe she’d be proud of her. She wondered what her grandmother would say if she told her she was praying for God to return her lovers to her. Both of them.

“Only myself, Grand-mère.”

Musichetta could here the _humph!_ from the next room.

“You must stop behaving like a silly girl, child.  It’s unbecoming.”  Her grandmother sighed.  “And stay inside today, is that understood?  I don’t trust all those stupid boys...  Do you hear me?  Young lady, you’d do well to respond to me!”

But Musichetta had pressed that sweet birthday note to her lips and was rocking back and forth, her eyes squeezed close.

“ _MUSICHETTA!_ ”

“I understand, ma’am,” she managed to croak out.  And then, once more, there was silence. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there – perhaps it was only minutes, perhaps it was hours – when there was finally a knock at the door.  She was at the door before her grandmother’s aging maid had even registered that someone had knocked.  And, when she threw the door open, it was with such force that the young woman on the other side gave a shocked squeal and dropped an empty wooden pail at their feet.  Musichetta immediately stooped to retrieve it.

“Clémence!” Musichetta could scarcely hide the disappointment in her voice. “You frightened me. I thought you were--”

“It’s over,” the other woman interrupted.  “The fighting’s been done for hours.”

If it was over, where were her boys?  Hours...hours...It surely could not take them hours to remember that they were meant to come back to her.  _They’re just busy_ , she told herself.  Yes, that had to be it!  Her boys were busy restoring the peace and preparing for their new world.  And Vincent, her sweet Vincent, there would surely be wounded men that needed his attention.  And darling Valère would never leave his side.  _Not even for me_. But she could live with that, for now at least.  In the end, they would put her first.  They were not their marble leader, who put France before women and men alike. No.  But they knew she could wait, they knew she’d be safe and she’d wait for them.

“‘Chetta?”

She had forgotten Clémence was there.  There was a pressure on her shoulder and she became aware of Clémence’s hand resting there.  The two girls looked at each other and, for the first time that morning, Musichetta saw just how empty her friend’s eyes were.  She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself just staring at the other woman.

“They’re looking for women and girls,” her friend said softly.  “To help clean up the…to help clean up the mess.”

“Our men.”

Clémence nodded, biting down on her lower lip.  She had been well-known and well-liked among many of the young students and had been known to share Courfeyrac’s bed once or twice.

Musichetta nodded, ashamed of the tear escaping down her cheek.

“Josephine,” she called, her voice magically betraying no emotion.

A stout older woman entered the room.  “Mademoiselle?”

“Where is Grand-mère?”

“Resting, mademoiselle.”

Musichetta nodded again.  “When she wakes, tell her the fighting is done.  I’ve been called upon to help clean up.”

Josephine looked at her, with her mouth pressed into a small, sad smile. Truly, her grandmother had no need for a maid and not much money to spare once they worked out her salary. But Josephine had been there since her mother was a child.  In truth, she felt more like family to Musichetta than the old lady did.

Josephine nodded.  “Stay strong, sweet girl.  That’s what you are.” And then she kissed her cheek and was gone.

“Shall we?”

Clémence’s eyes widened and wandered up and down Musichetta’s frame. Confused, the girl looked down and saw that she was foolishly still clad only in her nightdress and dressing gown.  Quickly, she retreated to her room and changed into a simple brown dress she had owned for years. It was uncomfortably tight across her bust, but it seemed silly to wear anything nicer.  _My boys will love me however I dress_ , she told herself, smiling slightly. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind too much the tightness across her chest.

Within half an hour, the two girls were walking down the street, each clutching the other’s hand and praying.  So very, very hard they were praying.

And then they were there, standing in front of the almost unrecognisable café, in front of a place her boys once nearly called home.

Women knelt upon the street, wet, red rags in their hands.  Soldiers walked amongst them, ensuring that they were doing what was asked.  Behind them, in the door of the café, she could see a line of large masses upon the floor.  It was there that she walked.

“Mademoiselle!” A firm hand was on her arm and a young soldier was staring down at her. 

“Please,” she said softly.  “My...my...” _Lovers?_ “My fiancé may have been...I cannot find him.”

And to her astonishment, the young soldier took pity on her.

“With me, mademoiselle.”  Putting a hand on her back, the young soldier led her towards the cafe.

“Was he a student?”

Musichetta nodded, scared of what would happen if she dared try to speak.

“Did you know many of his friends?”

Again, she nodded.  The soldier stopped abruptly, stopping Musichetta with him. 

“Do you know if your fiancé or his friends were involved with the revolutionary group known as Les Amis de l’ABC?”

Musichetta kept her eyes on her feet, slowly dragging her left foot back and forth and back and forth, watching the black of her boot poking out of the folds of her skirt, only to retreat again.  Or perhaps trying to escape only to be pulled back in.  She almost grinned at the absurdity of the thought.

“Mademoiselle.” The soldier’s voice was almost harsh this time.  And why wouldn’t it be?  She was here, at her boys’ cafe, where bodies now lined the floor.  And this soldier had fought.  He fought against her boys.  He fought against her friends.

_Damn you all to hell._ “We never discussed politics,” she told him coolly.

“Well, perhaps, at least, you could help us with identities.” With that, he took her arm again and led her inside.

The first body was one of an old man, one she did not recognise, and still she felt the bile in her throat.  Beside him was a figure much smaller, a boy she knew by sight though not by name. The little gamin that followed Courfeyrac—and the rest—everywhere.  A boy who could be not much older than ten years.   She quickly brought up both hands to cover her face.

“Mademoiselle, do you know this child?”

Musichetta did not respond—it took all of her power to not lose whatever bit of sanity remained to her.  She needed to leave.  The room was too hot. All she could hear were the screams of the dying and all she could feel was the soldier’s breath far too close to her face.

“Mademoiselle,” he asked again.  “Did this child have a family?”

_Why do you care?_   she wanted to scream.  _You killed him, a child!_ Instead, she remembered something she had once heard the boys say about an orphaned friend of theirs, lowered her hands from her face and calmly said, “His mother was France, monsieur. But it appears you’ve killed her, too.”

The soldier stared, dumbfounded at such a reaction.  And, before he had time to comprehend what she had said, Musichetta turned on her heel and began walking away, her eyes straight forward and unblinking.  She would not look down and she would not see the blood of her friends.  And still she could feel it seeping through her boots. _This could be them_ , she thought, still scared to look down. _This could be my boys._

_This could be the last time I touch them. This could be goodbye._

She took off in a run, not even acknowledging Clémence’s calling after her. She ran and ran and felt the stares of those around her.  When she felt that she could run no more, she continued.  And then she stopped.  She stopped there on the street and stared up at that nasty, old, disease-infected building with the landlady that could very nearly kill Musichetta with a single look.  Immediately, she ran to the door.

“Madame Dupont!” she shouted, hitting the door hysterically.  “Madame Dupont, _please_!” Her entire body trembled as tears dripped into her open, screaming mouth.

After a minute, a stout older woman answered the door.  She looked at Musichetta, crossing her arms over her excessive chest, and did not say a word. 

Musichetta didn’t wait.  Without a second thought, she pushed her way past Madame Dupont and raced up the stairs. When she reached Vincent’s room, she pounded furiously on the door, sobbing and screaming his name.

“You bastard!” she howled.  “I know you’re there, you horrible fucking bastard.  Open the door.  _Open. The.  DOOR!_ ”

Suddenly, a hand was on her shoulder and Musichetta screamed, spinning around. But it was only Madame Dupont, observing her with a warmth Musichetta had not known her capable of possessing.

“Monsieur Joly has not been home in days, Mademoiselle.  Nor has his...friend.”

Musichetta nodded her head repeatedly, her breath growing rapid.  Soon, it was the only sound that filled her ears. She was vaguely aware of the older woman grasping her arms and lowering her to the ground. A terrible sound then filled the hall.  A horrible, wretched, distraught shriek, one that held the anguish that only exists in literature, in the theatre.

“Musichetta,” Madame Dupont murmured, stroking her cheek.  “That’s your name, my dear, isn’t it?”

Musichetta looked up at her, wondering if the old woman was mocking her. There was no doubt, she thought, her cheeks reddening, that everyone in the building knew her name. She could so vividly remember the night she had realised that this could be a problem.  It had been a Sunday and she had known before it happened that this would be the night sending her straight to Hell. And she couldn’t have cared less. Valère had made dinner, but Vincent had insisted on his need to study and had left Musichetta and Valère to themselves.  She could still feel the wall against her back, her fingernails in his flesh and hair. It was the first time it had ever been just the two of them, the first time she had felt his hands so tightly gripping her waist and so easily lifting her off the ground.  The first time she had begged, really and truly begged him, to say her name.  She could remember waking up in the morning to find that Vincent had slipped in on her other side.  She could still smell that sweetness, that beautiful mixture of sweat and of _them_.  She had woken up that morning between the two men who were her world.  And now she would never see them again.

Her body trembling, Musichetta looked up into the other woman’s eyes.

“I should go,” she said softly, her throat raw.  “People might worry about where I am.”

Madame Dupont nodded and rose, extending her hand to the girl still crumpled on the floor.  Biting her lip, Musichetta took it and stood up.

“I may come by,” she said slowly, her voice catching in her throat. “Sometime this week. To - to get some things. If you would let me in then…”

Madame Dupont patted her arm.  “Take your time, mademoiselle.  I know your... friends would want you to have their belongings.”

Musichetta nodded and, with a quick murmured goodbye, all but fled the building.

When she walked in the door, Josephine said nothing.  She only walking up to the trembling girl and pressed a kiss to her forehead.  Musichetta wanted to scream.

“I thought I told you explicitly _not_ to go outside today!”  Came the old lady’s shrill caw from the other room.  “Insolent girl!  You could have been killed!”

Musichetta kicked off her shoes, looking at the toes now caked in blood. Grand-mère would surely have them thrown away.  She tilted her head back and leaned upon the wall.

“I’m home safe now,” she snapped, her voice magically not betraying her grief. “What more must you ask of me?”

***

On the other side of Paris, a man stepped foot into the city he had not seen since his youth.  How drastically it had changed!  _Nearly as much as I have_ , he thought, smiling sadly. He knew he looked far older than his thirty-nine years.  His travels had led him far and for what?  To return to Paris empty handed?  No. But his brother was a priest here now and he prayed that, unlike the rest of their siblings, his eldest brother might be able to help him. 

If not, he would at least accommodate him for the night.

Sighing, he stuffed his hand into a pocket and ran his thumb across the fraying sheet of paper.  A letter his mother had written before the fever took her.  A letter reminding him of his childhood and the uncle who sacrificed it all for him and his siblings.  This letter was his life and, to him, it was worth more than gold.


	2. Shame

Every few steps, the man slipped a hand into his pocket, as though making sure that whatever he was carrying was still there and hadn’t fallen onto the street.  He was dressed rather poorly - not so bad as a man of the streets, but by no means a man of significant wealth.  It was, after all, money in his pocket, and a valuable sum at that. Of this, Montparnasse was sure. He let his gaze take in the entire street.  It was crowded, far too crowded to attack the man in the open and his constant attention to his pocket made it clear that he was too wise to follow Montparnasse anywhere. And yet there were too few people to simply bump into the man and disappear with his wallet. He silently cursed the warm summer’s day.

He was about to turn around, about to abandon his prey, when a low whistle hit his ears.  Not as perfectly bird-like as Hers had been, but plain enough to go unnoticed by anyone but the young assassin.  He looked up and saw, staring from the shadows, dark eyes beneath a red fringe.  He nodded once and turned his gaze back to the man before him.

“Monsieur!”  The girl darted forward.  Her stealth would never match that of her sister’s, but it was enough that the man hadn’t seen her before she called out.  “Monsieur!” she cried again, practically falling at the man’s feet.  He reached out with both hands, grabbing the girl by her arms.

Montparnasse looked around.  A few people had turned their heads to observe the commotion.  _Damn you to Hell, ‘Zelma,_ he thought.  She was a bloody fool to be so loud.

“Please, monsieur,” Azelma begged of the stranger, who was looking around uncomfortably.  “Please, take pity, please - I’m searching for my sister. No one’s seen her, not for days. Not since the rebellion."

The woman across the street immediately turned her head and kept walking.  _Clever wench_ , Montparnasse decided. Not as clever as Éponine, that was obvious.  But she was clever enough to know that no one wanted to get involved with the tale of a traitorous gamine. He took a step forward.

“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” the man said, steadying Azelma.  “I’ve only just arrived in the city.”

“Oh, but please!” she persisted. _Another difference._ He had only once ever heard her sister beg.  He watched as she stared desperately into the other man’s eyes and did his best to ignore the honest desperation he saw.  He silently applauded her for never once looking towards him as he reached into the other man’s pocket.  “Perhaps you’ve seen her, at least.  Tall as me, skinnier.”

“That describes a great many young women, my child,” Montparnasse heard the man say as he slipped into the shadows, folds of paper in his hand.  Safely hidden, he opened the papers.

He could have screamed.  It was a letter, nothing more.  He crumbled it up and threw it to the ground, spitting in its direction. 

“Not what you expected?”

He glared at Azelma’s feet as he sunk to the ground. “A bloody letter. An old one.  No value, nothing but _sentiment_.” He spat that final word.

The girl scoffed.  “Don’t pretend you’re immune.”

“I am.”

“And what of my sister?”

Montparnasse said nothing.  He simply watched as her raw and dirty feet stepped over to the letter he had crumbled and her body stooped to grab it.

“If it’s only of sentimental value,” she said, unfolding it and glancing it over, “you should return it.”

Montparnasse let out a huff of disdain. Even in her weakest moments, Éponine was never so soft.  “If he truly cares about it, he’ll offer a reward.”

“No one’s that stu-”  Montparnasse looked up and was surprised to see Azelma staring at the now unfolded sheet of paper, head cocked and eyes wide. “‘Parnasse,” she exclaimed, falling to her knees beside him and pointing at the scribbled words on the paper. “‘Parnasse, what does this say?”

Montparnasse rolled his eyes and looked up at the wall before him.  “Éponine reads.”

“Well, bully for Éponine.  Please, ‘Parnasse.”

“What’s it to you?  Look at the date, this was written years ago.” But still he took the letter and read to the girl:

_I beg of you to find what has become of your uncle, who gave his very freedom to feed you, your brothers, and your sister.  I know you were no more than a child when he was taken from us, but his name, like your grandfather, God rest his soul, was Jean…_

“Valjean,” Azelma finished quietly.

“See, fool?  You can read.”

“I know him.”

Montparnasse finally looked at her, his eyes almost widening in surprise.  He wondered how on Earth Azelma could know such a random stranger, but simply responded with a soft: “Oh?”

Azelma nodded.  “Well, Papa does.  He was the man who got me arrested.”  Her face suddenly fell and she crossed her arms before continuing. “When you were too busy _fucking_ my sister to help us.”

With a resounding _whack_ , Montparnasse slapped the girl across the face.  When she said nothing, he looked down at their knees - he normally tried so hard to not hit women.  Babet’s rule. 

“We weren’t fucking and it didn’t stop her from getting caught anyway,” he muttered.  With a sigh, he turned away from her again.  “How’d the old dog know him anyway?”

“He stole Cosette.”

“You can’t steal a person.”

“So says the murderer.”

Montparnasse bit his lip rather than hitting her again.  “You’re a brat, you know?”

Azelma shrugged.  “You should give the letter to ‘Ponine.  She knows where Cosette lives.”

Montparnasse turned to stare at her, hoping the dim light of the alley would mask the paleness of his cheeks. Azelma, however, noticed that something - she couldn’t place what - was off and continued.  “Monsieur le Baron was looking for her. Cosette, I mean. ‘Ponine found her for him, but I think Papa must have found out because he’s been so angry and ‘Ponine hasn’t been home.”

When Montparnasse still gave her no response, she spoke once more, the strain in her voice evident.  “She is with you, ‘Parnasse, isn’t she? She always goes to you when something’s wrong.  You or Gavroche, but I can’t find him either.”  Still Montparnasse stayed quiet.  With a choked sob, Azelma grabbed at the collar of his jacket. “Oh, you’ve seen her, haven’t you! Darling Montparnasse,” she kissed his cheek and he could feel her tears.  It was sickening.  “Please tell her I’m looking for her, that Papa’s sorry.  Or I can tell her myself.  Just tell me where she is.  I won’t tell her it was you.  I’ll let her think it was an accident!”

Montparnasse laughed.  Éponine would never be so silly as to fall for any of her sister’s lies.  But they had had a deal.  Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head against the wall behind him. 

“Try the Seine.”

“What bridge?”

Montparnasse wanted to laugh again. _What a fool you are, ‘Zelma.  And not even a pretty one._   “That’s probably what happens traitors.  Maybe she’s with her bourgeois boys.”

“They’re all dead.”

“Aren’t you the clever one?”

Azelma’s face paled.  “Where’s my sister?”

When Montparnasse didn’t respond, she slapped him hard across the face.  Had it not pained him so, he may have applauded her; fool though she was, the girl had a good arm.  But, with a resigned sigh, he pushed the little girl away from him and stood up.

“You do know,” he asked, straightening his coat, “That you’re not as stupid as your father wants you to think you are, don’t you? You know where she is.”

With that, he walked away.  Even from the main street he could hear the girl hysterically shrieking his name, begging him to come back, demanding that he find her sister.  He knew he should turn back and silence Azelma, but barely a week before, he had spun around to silence a shadow and ended up dragging a corpse to a church. If he turned around, he’d say something that would only make the girl cry harder: “I saw her myself,” “Your brother was there, too.”  He hadn’t even mentioned that to Éponine.  She had looked so broken and, he had been sure that no matter what he did, she would be dead by morning.  Why tell her he had seen the boy while looting the other bodies?  She had loved him so foolishly much. No, he resolved he’d leave the child to her own misery.  Fingering the letter now in his pocket, he walked away.

* * *

 

Across the city, a young man’s eyes fluttered open. The room was dark, however, so he quickly shut them once more. His whole being ached and he was not yet ready to exist again.  He struggled to keep his breath steady as his thoughts came flooding back to him: the little boy singing and Courfeyrac screaming, Pontmercy falling and Combeferre grabbing him in a panic and dragging him inside, screaming that they needed to retreat.  Joly gripping his arms as they heard the soldiers entering downstairs. That very grip loosening and sliding off him as shots came from below.  And Grantaire, Grantaire whom he had so underestimated, walking towards him, head held high with eyes full of passion and that foolish, foolish adoration.

For years, since he had first met the other man, he had criticised him, berated him even, for his utter lack of passion. And now there were never words he would more regret.  Passion alone was power. But passion and adoration? It was all foolishness, pure foolishness from which no good could come.  And now all his friends, all those he knew and relied on, were gone.

And, by all logic, he was as well. He had given Grantaire his permission to die alongside him.  Alongside him and not for him.  He had taken the other man’s hand and, in a single glance, had tried to explain it to him.  He was no god and, if he was, he was one of destruction.  He had whispered with his pale eyes, “I could have been your friend,” and the dark eyes responded with, “That could have been enough.”  And then the world exploded. 

His breath caught in his throat and he could all but feel the blood leaving his chest.  But then he heard it, a sound so soft and yet it permeated the Hell that kept replaying itself behind his closed eyes.  There was a soft rustle of skirts and even softer footsteps padding across the room.  He steadied his breath, willing some nurse to recognise that his life was not worth saving.

“It takes more than closed eyes to con me, monsieur.”  It was an odd voice that whispered to him; ragged with the gravity of an old woman and, yet, still the voice of a child. 

“Very well,” the voice continued as he remained silent.  “Remain a corpse, if you will.  I shall talk anyway.” His bed - yes, he was certainly in a bed - depressed as the woman (or was it a girl?) sat beside him. It took all his power not to flinch as fingers brushed across his chest and he prayed his breath did not betray his pain.

“They never told me how many bullets they pulled from you, monsieur.  Maybe they thought it was a topic I was unable to handle.”  She let out a small laugh, followed by a cough. “I still have your coat - I’ve kept it with my things.  The sleeves are still lovely, but the rest has dried brown.”  She sighed.  “We’re in a church now, monsieur, and they don’t know our names. They call me child sometimes - it almost makes me laugh.  And you are simply the man.  Often only ‘him.’ I know you, Monsieur Marble. But I know the law, too, and names are dangerous things.  I often-”

“Please stop.”  He could no longer stand her babbling.  Her words meant little and less to him - she could have been speaking Chinese for all he could understand.  “Please,” he croaked out.  “Just leave me.”

His companion scoffed and he opened his eyes. A pale face stood out in the darkness, mere inches from his own.

“ _You will not die._ ”

“I beg your pardon?”

The girl - for those eyes could not be more than a girl - cocked her head to the left.

“I didn’t hear what you said,” he continued.

“That’s good, then.  I said nothing.”

He shut his eyes again.  “For a nurse, you have a horrible bedside manner.”

The girl laughed again and, though he could sense her discomfort, he could not place it.  “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not a nurse.” Despite her answer, he could feel her hands again on his chest.

“Who are you?”

“No one.”

“Even no one may have a name.”

“I’ve lost it.”

“Lost what?”

“My name.”

_What a peculiar girl_. He opened his eyes again, hoping to find enough light to study her.   “A name cannot be lost.”

She looked away from him, dark tresses falling over pale cheeks.  “I had a choice, monsieur - my soul or my name.  You can have many names, but only one soul.  I’d like to think mine’s not past saving.”

He didn’t respond.  Instead, he closed his eyes again and turned his head away from her.  Perhaps if he ignored her, she would just leave - or at least be quiet.  But clearly the girl did not understand his intent.

“Are you truly marble?” she blurted out.

His eyes burst open and he could feel his heart pick up its pace.  “I’m sorry?”

“Is Marble your true name?  Monsieur Marble.”

He drew in a breath, praying it meant nothing. “No.”

“So it was just something your friends called you?”

He let out a quick laugh.  Or maybe a sob.  A man would not so calmly lead all his friends to their deaths. “I don’t have friends, mademoiselle.”

“No,” the girl said bluntly.  “I suppose you don’t anymore.”

He lunged forward, hand outstretched, but found himself screaming out in pain before his fingers could close around her neck.  Now even paler, the girl flung herself from his bed and opened the door, shouting, “Monsieur le curé!”

As he struggled to regain his breath, footsteps approached.  A warm light filled the room. 

“Monsieur!” the girl exclaimed, grabbing the priest by his arm.  He hadn’t realised before how small she was.  No, beside the priest, the girl was only a small child.  “Monsieur, he’s awake!  Really and truly this time!”

“So I heard,” said the priest slowly. “And so I see.”

“I’ve been suspecting for, oh, a quarter of an hour nearly,” she continued quickly.  “His breathing changed and I thought ‘perhaps I should get someone’ and I was just nearly about to make up my mind when he cried out!”

The priest gave the girl a small, but appreciative smile and set his candle on the small bedside table.  “You’re a good soul, my child, to take such care of him.  Keep your post a moment longer, my dear, and I shall send for a doctor.”

“No!” Both the priest and the girl looked towards the bed.

“I assure you,” the priest said kindly, “that this doctor is a good man and not unfamiliar with your wounds. He respects the law of God. Let the authorities cause you no fear here.”

The younger man nodded, still working on regaining his breath.  “Can’t _she_ go to fetch him?” He all but spat the pronoun. The priest, however, ignored the bitterness and laughed warmly.

“You have been here nearly a week, my son, floating between us and God.  And, these last five days, our friend has not left this room.  Do not think that your waking will so easily sway her to leave.”  With a smile, he turned and left.

Alone again, the bedridden man turned his attention to the girl.  “How do you know my friends?”

The girl smirked and again he felt the urge to strangle her.  “They’re not your friends, monsieur, but mine.”  She grinned and sat again on his bed, now by his feet and far out of his reach. “ _Les Amis de l’Abaisse_.”

“Were you there?” He asked, his voice suddenly choking in his throat.

For a long while, the girl was quiet. When she spoke, her own voice was so soft he could barely hear her.  “You were in the window.  I just wanted to bring you inside, but you took my hand and wouldn’t let me go.”

“But why were you there?”

“Other lives needed my own.”  Her head was bowed and he watched as her hands played fretfully with her skirt. 

“Your lover?”  He silently cursed himself for never having paid heed to his friends when conversation turned to their mistresses.

But the girl just shrugged.  “And my brother.”

_Brother_? He knew little and less of the families of his companions.  Combeferre, he knew, had a sister living in London, but Grantaire, he thought, had mentioned a sister in the city before.  He had never thought much of it, but still, it was all he had.

“Mademoiselle Grantaire?”

“Who?”  She didn’t even raise her head.

He shook his head and looked down again.   “Michele Grantaire. He had a sister in Paris.”

“Which was he?”

“A drunkard.”  He hoped the man’s memory would not find insult with this identifier.

“Oh.”  When he looked up, he saw the girl was trembling. He reached forward, maybe to comfort her, but she flinched away and stood, walking across the room.

“Did you know him?  Michele?”

She first shook her head, but then nodded. “He was looking at me.” Her voice was barely more than a breath.  “I’ve never seen a dead man’s eyes before.”

He dropped his head to his pillow and shut his eyes, unwilling to remember his friend’s final gaze.  “The dead can’t see,” he replied simply.

“Well, this one could.”

* * *

 For two months now, Musichetta had been in Hell. She woke with the same sun each day.  She went to the shop each morning at nine and returned each evening at a quarter past six. She soaked her hands in warm water and listened to Grand-mère scold her for her grief.  This was her life now.

It was the second Sunday of August when Grand-mère, in a fit of fear of watching her granddaughter sob her way to spinsterhood, demanded that Musichetta do _something_ or “I will write your poor mother and you’ll be home by September!”

So she found herself standing alone in the Luxembourg.  She couldn’t remember why she had stopped walking, but she suddenly found herself unable to journey on.  She couldn’t do this, these silly distractions.  The only thing that hurt more than realising her loves were gone was that split second of distraction when she almost forgot, only to remember all over again. She shut her eyes, hoping to see their faces in the darkness, but they weren’t there.  It barely been two months and already she couldn’t picture their faces.  She quickly brought her hands to her face and was about to let out a sob, not caring that she was standing in the middle of a path in the Luxembourg, when she felt something move in her pocket.  With a small gasp, she grabbed her skirt and spun around.

A small boy, not more than five or six years old, was staring at her with wide eyes, his arm still outstretched and holding a single coin.  His thin body trembled as he stared up at Musichetta’s red face and redder eyes and sympathy and pity washed away - if only for a moment - her own grief.  Before she could open her mouth, the boy let out a hysterical sob.  Without paying attention to the coin in his hand, Musichetta dropped to his level.

“Oh, hush, _petit_! Don’t cry!”  She could never stand seeing a child cry, especially not here and now.  “No harm’s been done, sweetheart!  Oh, and look!  You’ve found yourself a shiny new coin!”

At her words, the boy immediately held out the coin to her, sobbing harder still.

“No, no, _petit_ ,” she said, cupping his hands in her own.  “You found it.  Finders keepers.”

“But I didn’t find it,” the child wailed. “I stole it!”

Musichetta couldn’t help but laugh as she lifted the boy in her arms and carried him to a nearby bench.  “Stop your tears, _petit_. I have very deep pockets, you were clever to find anything at all.  Now,” she smiled as she sat down, settling the child in her lap and facing him.  “What is your name?”

The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on a torn sleeve, looking down at his lap.  “Remi.” With a small gasp, he looked back up at her.  “Will you set the police on me?”

Musichetta laughed and shook her head.

“Mademoiselle?”

She looked to her right.  Another small child with a mop of dark red curls stood beside her, this one perhaps a year or two older than the one in her lap. He stared at her with the same dark eyes.  Shifting her skirt, she patted the bench beside her.

“Is this your brother?”

The older boy stared at the seat, but remained standing.  “Is he bothering you, mademoiselle?”

Musichetta shook her head.  “Oh, no!  We were becoming fast friends.”

“Christophe!”  Remi shouted, holding out his hand so the other boy could see the coin.  “Christophe, look was the pretty Miss gave me!”

Christophe crossed his arms over his chest, staring angrily at his brother.  “You’re _bothering_ her, stupid. Now give back her coin and let’s go.  We’ve still got to find our mister.”  He held out his hand.

Musichetta bit the inside of her lip. These poor boys, she thought, off to sleep starving in the streets in search of some nameless man. She wrapped her arms around Remi as he began to squirm in her lap.

“Let me buy you something to eat, please.” Christophe continued to stare at her in apprehension.  “Please, messieurs.  I’m terribly hungry and don’t want to eat alone.”

The older boy stared a moment longer before nodding. Musichetta stood up, balancing Remi on her hip, and held out a hand to Christophe.  To her surprise, he took it.

“So,“ she began as they strolled through the gardens, “tell me: where is your maman?”

Christophe shrugged his shoulders and sniffed. “We don’t know. We were outdoors.”

“We were playing pirates!”

“And when we went back in, Maman was gone.”

“We waited _forever_.”

“We waited, but she didn’t come back and we were hungry.”

“A mean man yelled at us, but mister saved us!”

Musichetta nodded and shifted Remi on her hip, hoping neither her worry nor her pity showed on her face.  “Who is mister?” She asked cautiously.

“He’s a boy.  Only a little bit older than me.”

“But he lives in an elephant!”

“An elephant?”

Remi nodded, grinning as though he was revealing that this mysterious boy was St. Nicholas himself.  Christophe tugged on Musichetta’s hand to draw her attention away from his brother.

“But he left us, too.  And the rats in the elephant scared Remi.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!  So we left.”

Musichetta nodded sympathetically and squeezed Christophe’s hand.  For several minutes, the trio continued in silence.  Musichetta was about to ask what the boys wanted to eat when Remi slammed a hand down hard on her shoulder, pointed, and shouted, “Christophe! Look!”

Musichetta looked at where the child was pointing.  And young couple was strolling not too far from them.  The man was tall and well dressed with his face turned away, showing only the ends of his hair, almost red in the sun, against the paleness of his neck.  The woman, doubtlessly his wife or paramour, was dressed in all mourning staring at her husband with adoration so intense that she seemed not to notice the glares of an older woman, seemingly disturbed by the dark skin peeking out beneath her fine gown.   Musichetta watched as the young woman brought a gloved hand to her lover’s face and said something Musichetta could not hear.

The couple’s peace, however, ended when Christophe let out a squeal and released Musichetta’s hand.  “That is my uncle!”  He tugged at his brother’s leg and Musichetta had no choice but to release him.  She watched as the boys clasped hands and ran ahead.  She followed slowly behind, wanting to make sure that the boys were right in their recognition and, almost childishly, wanting to say goodbye. She smiled, watching Remi grab at the man's hand. He started for a moment and Musichetta thought perhaps the boy had made an error. But after another second, he swooped down and scooped up the child, holding him close.  Christophe grabbed the man's hand and pointed back at Musichetta. He turned to look at her and, for a moment, Musichetta ceased to breathe.

She knew both his face and his name, though she doubted he knew hers.  An acquaintance of her boys', a friend of Courfeyrac.  She could feel her heart pounding and wondered what she was expected to say.  "I thought you all died" hardly seemed appropriate, yet she was still sure it was better than "Why are you alive" or "why you?"

She drew in a sharp breath as he set Remi back on the ground and approached her.  "Monsieur," she said, bowing her head. "I assume these boys are safe now in your custody?"

"I keep going back there - to the Musain," he said without preamble or acknowledgement of her question. "I keep wondering if perhaps I shall see you or Mademoiselle Pettigrew, yet you're never there."

"Monsieur-"

"Marius, please...?"

"Musichetta."

"Of course. My apologies. You're Joly's girl."

"And Lesgle’s."

Marius had the decency to not pause more than a moment. "Of course. I've wondering where I could find someone, anyone-"

"I should go, Monsieur Marius." She turned quickly. _They were all supposed to be dead._ The idea that one could still be alive...She could feel the bile rising in her throat; she could not deal with this, not now.

"But I thought we were going to eat." She turned to see Remi holding the mourning woman's hand.

"But you have your uncle now."

"Please, Musichetta," Marius asked, placing a hand on her arm.  "Come home with us.  We'll have tea. Coffee, if you prefer. I’m sure Grandfather wouldn’t mind.  Cosette?”

The woman shook her head.  “We’d be delighted to have you,” she said with the voice of a lark.  “Please.”

Musichetta began to pick at the lace of her sleeves.  The idea was enticing.  She had never properly met Marius before, but both her boys had spoken highly of him: a promising future lawyer, kind and caring, a romantic.  And their approval was always - and would always be - enough for her.  She looked up at the sky.  The sun was getting low now and she was sure Grand-mère would worry.  But she was equally sure that, upon her return, the old lady would be pleased to know that Musichetta had tea with friends that afternoon, a baron and his wife. 

“That would be lovely,” she said, with a small nod.  “Thank you very much.”

Marius offered her his arm as Cosette lifted Remi onto one hip and took Christophe’s hand, as Musichetta had done only minutes before.

“Are you really my aunt now?” One of the boys asked of Cosette.  He giggled as Cosette responded and quickly began to tell her about their misadventures.

“So,” Musichetta began quietly, allowing Marius to lead her out of the garden.  “Wasn’t your brother worried?”

“My brother?” 

“Or sister, I suppose.  The boys’ parents.”

“Oh!”  Marius chuckled, gesturing left down the road and glancing over his shoulder to make sure Cosette and the boys hadn’t fallen too far behind. “I have neither brothers nor sisters. The boys are...Well, my grandfather, you see…They live with their mother.  My grandfather pays for them, though, and I used to go see them on occasion.  Grandfather doesn’t acknowledge them, you see and...”

He trailed off and, when Musichetta glanced up at him, she nearly wanted to laugh at how red his face had turned. “I understand.” She smiled and patted his arm before falling silent again, staring ahead of her and trying to clear her mind of everything.  Marius, however, could not help but speak and, in a low voice, so low she could scarcely hear him, said:

“I think you must hate me very much.”

Musichetta stopped in her tracks. “I think you are very much mistaken, monsieur.”

Marius let out a bitter laugh. “No, mademoiselle, I don’t think I am. You may not know it yet, but you do.”  When she looked up at him, she found that the redness of his cheeks had been replaced with the whitest white and that the baron made no attempt to hide the tears welling in his eyes.  “Don’t worry about offending me, Musichetta.  You won’t, because, however much you choose to hate me, I assure you that, at the very least, I will match you in it.  There were many brave men who fought that day, most far braver than myself and far more deserving of carrying you on his arm.”

Musichetta swallowed and continued walking, prompting Marius to continue with her.  “Every man who fought that day and those before knew what the risks were.  You were lucky, monsieur, and should be grateful.”

Marius nodded, blinking the tears from his eyes. “Cosette,” he said suddenly, stopping before a large home.  “I, um, will you take Musichetta into the parlor?  I’ll take the boys to Grandfather and come to join you.” He reached out his arms for Remi, who had fallen asleep on the walk home and beckoned for Christophe to follow him. Musichetta smiled politely as Cosette linked their arms and led her inside, though all her previous confidence had left.  This house, with each step, was grander than anything she had ever known.  She didn’t belong in such a fine place with such kind people.  Her first instinct, as it always was, had been right.  She shouldn’t be here.

“Madame la Baronne-”

“Cosette.  Please.”

Musichetta smiled and nodded. “Cosette, then. I...I thank you and your husband for your kindness, but I truly must be going.  I live with my grandmother, you see, and she worries quite a lot.”

Cosette cut her off by patting her arm, gesturing for her to sit on a plush, white couch.  “Musichetta, please,” she began softly.  “I can understand if you don’t want to be here. Whether it’s because of Marius or myself, I understand it.  I do.  But I must beg you to stay, just a half hour.  And then you may leave and never think of us again.”  She sat on the couch beside her.  “We’ve been married several weeks now, he and I. Before we married, I thought...I thought perhaps we were making progress.  That perhaps his guilt was subsiding.  True, I couldn’t talk of his friends as though they were my own, as though I knew them, but I tried.  Truly.”

Musichetta stared at her skirt, unsure of what the other woman was trying to tell her.  The couple, despite their obvious grief, seemed happy in their togetherness.  Even before everything, she had heard Vincent and Valère discuss Marius’s obsession.

“Musichetta,” the Baronne continued in her sweet voice.  “I would never want for you to be uncomfortable - that is the last thing I want.  But you and Marius...I know you were never close and didn't speak much, but you loved what he loved and he what you did. I only hope-"

She was interrupted as her husband reentered the room.

"I'm sorry for the wait, ladies," he said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.  "Grandfather and Aunt Gillenormand were...surprised, to say the least.  My darling aunt says that having them around will be bad for my health.  I assume she meant her own."

Cosette let out a tinkling laugh. "Well, she shan't have to worry about them.  Toussaint will dote on them, I'm sure.  She keeps complaining I'm far too grown."

"Well, she'll be quite occupied now." Marius walked over to the desk and shelf in the corner, still wearing that same sad smile, and picked up a glass bottle.  "Would you care for a drink?"  He continued raising the container to Musichetta.

"Oh, I couldn't.  I really should be going soon, I never meant to impose."

"Really," Marius insisted, setting the container on the desk and pulling two glasses from the cabinet. "I insist. You wouldn't force me to drink alone, would you?"

"Oh, hush, Marius!" Cosette scolded her husband affectionately.  "Musichetta, you mustn't feel obligated to drink just because my husband wants to."

"And you mustn't refuse me simply because my wife's too much of a convent girl to join us."

"Who says I'm not joining? Husband!" She demanded with a teasing pout.  "Bring us our drinks!"

Musichetta laughed as Marius poured their drinks. It was, perhaps, her first honest laugh since she had said goodbye to her lovers on that cruel morning not so many months ago.  She could feel Cosette staring at her, so with a smile, she turned to face her and squeezed her arm affectionately.

“Are you scared, Musichetta?” Marius asked as he sat himself down beside her and pressed a glass into her hand.

_Of what?_ Musichetta thought of responding.  It was an odd question, one completely out of the blue.  And yet she knew why it was asked and what it meant. Cosette had never known their friends and never would.  As she had told Musichetta only moments before, she and Marius only had each other to understand their grief.  And, in that, there was too much to be scared of.  There was the ever-constant loneliness, there was the fact that she was alive.  There was the idea that death was always closer than it appeared.  But what he meant did not matter, for her answer would remain the same.

“Very.”  She took a long, slow sip before continuing.  “When I am sad, I fear they hate me for wasting my life.  When I am happy, I’m sure they hate me for forgetting.”

All three sat in silence, the only sounds being the drink burning down their throats.  It was eventually Cosette who broke the silence.

“My mother died when I was eight,” she began. “And my father only a few weeks ago.  I - I don’t remember my mother.  When she died, I hadn’t seen her in five years.  But I know she loved me.  As did my father. And… I think that those who love us, all they want is our happiness.  That is all.  I don’t know the men you lost, either of you.  But I know you must have meant as much to them as they did to you. So, truly, I don’t think they’re sitting up there taking your laughter to mean you’ve forgotten them.  I know it sounds silly to say, like I’m just reciting from a silly old play, but I really do believe it.  We oughtn’t waste our lives away dreaming about how things might have ended differently.”

Musichetta set down her still half full glass and allowed herself a moment to catch her breath.  “So what am I to do?” she asked, not even bothering to be embarrassed at how choked she sounded.  She was only vaguely aware of Marius wrapping an arm around her shoulder as Cosette moved to kneel on the ground in front of her, grasping her knee.  Musichetta continued, “Just pretend I never had them?  Pretend that the best thing of my life was only a dream?”

Cosette shook her head.  “Not in the slightest,” she said, and Musichetta was surprised to hear the baroness’s voice as choked up as her own. “You must remember that the ones you love are always with you.  You’ve just need to live and trust me when I say that, even in the darkest of times, there’s hope.  It’s silly and stupid, but trust me that I know it’s true.  So you must keep living as they would want you to live.”

With that, she tilted back her head and finished her drink in a final go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read so far. Reviews/comments are always much appreciated!


	3. Fallen Angels; or Ghosts

Since June, a small church in the centre of Paris had acquired what appeared to be two ghosts, living in two small rooms made up specifically for them.  One could be heard only in the dead of night, with just the priests and the other ghost around to hear him. Soft and then louder, his strangled cries permeated every inch of their holy haven when he thought the whole world was sleeping.  The other ghost, the she-ghost, as she was called, was the ghost of a people - a flutter of skirts in an empty room, the flickering of a candle’s flames that seemed too much like eyes.  She was nowhere and everywhere.  For some, she was a sign God was listening.  "I swear it was her," an old woman had told the priest. "I asked the Holy Virgin for guidance and there she was."  For others, she was a demon, haunting that holy home of Christ. "To pray for the end of vice," a young man had told his companion, "and to only see Lilith herself darting away from you!  It's mockery, that's what it is."  But, even with the sneers and secrecy, the little ghost liked her new phantasmal state.  The whole of the Church was her domain.  She danced around, humming off-key, exploring her palace in nothing but a nightgown and shawl, and trying so hard to stay out of sight. 

On the first Wednesday of August, she knocked over a lamp on the balcony while watching the people below.  An old lady at once went to the priests and warned them that there seemed to be a ghost of sorts in the church.  Or, at least, a stray cat.  The priests smiled and assure her that there were no ghosts in their church, but they would indeed look out for the cat. After that incident, the she-ghost was given a proper dress.  Not as lovely as some of the ladies that came to pray, but a simple grey gown that would let her walk through the church without scaring poor old ladies. When her soldier-boy asked her why she was crying, she told him it was the ugly collar.

"It'll itch," she had said with a sniff.

In truth, it had just been too long since anyone had given her a proper dress, ugly collar or none.  Still, he muttered under his breath (something, she was sure, about being stuck with such a wicked brat) and turned back to his book.

He was always reading, her soldier-boy.  He read what interested him from the church's small collection and the kind priest's brother frequently stopped by, always with more books for her soldier-boy and never with anything for her. It was a lonely life the two ghosts led.  He sat at his desk, buried in his book, all day and cried alone come nightfall.  She, on the other hand, wandered unnamed and unseen, with no distraction from her own thoughts.  Come night, the rain cried for her.

Eventually, she took to spending her days in his room, sitting silently on the foot of his bed.  Whether he was ignoring her or oblivious to her, she could not say. But the steadiness of his breath, interspersed with the deep sighs as he read, was a small comfort in her lonely and ghostly life. 

"What are you reading?" she asked one day.

He didn't even bother to look up at her.  "Rousseau."

_Misère est mon trousseau_

_C'est la faute a Rousseau_

She knew that name well.

"Do you like it?"

"He has interesting ideas," was his monotonous reply.

_And do you, monsieur?_ she thought, _or does your interesting always come in that slow and heavy tone?_   Despite being the most interesting person in her palace-prison, he was dreadfully boring.  "What is the name of the book?"

" _Emile_."

"Have you read it before?"

"Yes."

"May I when you're done?  I can read, you know."

Now he looked up at her, closing his book at setting it on his lap. "Whoever insinuated you couldn't?"

"I just haven't any books of my own."

He sighed.  "If you asked, you'd be brought some."

She shook her head and sat on the edge of his bed. "That would be silly. A waste of money. I'll just read yours."

He scoffed and stood, setting his book down on the small desk. He began looking through the stack of books that had accumulated there.  "None of these would interest you," he told her.

"Why not?"

"They're...political.  I don't waste my time on silly romances."

She laughed, jumping up and walking over to him. "Oh, but that's very good! You see, I don't either."

But still her soldier-boy put his hand down on the stack of books. _These are mine_ , his eyes screamed.  And she understood, she did.  They lived in such small quarters, she in her room, he in his. Neither of them had anything. The difference, she assumed, was that she was more accustomed to nothingness.  But still, why should he get such a collection of books while she was left only her one dress?

"Please," she said, trying to make her voice softer. "Just let me look at one."

He sighed.  "How old are you?"

"Old."

"Truly."

Refusing to answer, she reached around him and grabbed a lone apple from his desk and took a bite as large as her mouth could hold. It was tart, too tart, but she kept her eyes open and chewed, staring at him straight.

"Then tell me something,” he said in that horrid monotone, his lips pressed together in a thin line that made her wonder if she should have bothered saving him at all.  “How are you, _mademoiselle_ , political?  Do you have theories?  What are your thoughts?"

Stomping her foot, she threw the apple to the floor and crossed her arms across her chest.  "You're mocking me!"

" _Nonsense_ , mademoiselle!”  He lowered himself back into his chair and, resting his chin upon his hand, stared up at her with raised eyebrows and continued speaking with such false enthusiasm that it took all she had not to spit in his face.  “I'm simply trying to have a chat with you.  A discussion with a fellow intellectual. Surely a girl as smart as yourself can talk politically."

The girl swallowed and willed herself not to cover her ears against the furious pounding within her chest.  She forced her eyes to stay open and focused on her damned soldier-boy as she stooped to retrieve the apple at her feet.  "I went to war.  I went to your war,” she hissed as she straightened herself back up. “I fought! I was shot! And when they left you for dead, I brought you here!"

"So you're a hero then!  It's no political theory, mademoiselle, but still a good story. You'll make a fine politician some day!"  With a tight lipped smiled, he turned away from her, opening one of the volumes upon his desk.

"Why do you hate me so much?" Her desire not to cry taking all of her strength, she allowed the spoiled girl of her past to surface. Stomping her foot, she threw the apple at the man before her.

"Why must you insist on barging in here uninvited?" he asked without so much as a wince, simply bringing his hand to the fruit now in his lap, blocking it from the girl. 

She took a step backwards, ready to race to the door at a moment's notice.  "I was lonely," she whispered.  "I thought perhaps you would be, too."

"Well, I'm not."

"Yes, I can see that.  It appears as though you are stone down into your very soul." She turned to go, but stopped in the doorway, not daring to look back.  "I don't think you care for anything, monsieur. And that's a shame. Your friends ought to have died for someone who would mourn them."

She was nearly around the corner when she heard the small pile of books cascade to the floor.  It was an ugly sight - that ghost of a girl standing in the dark corridor, tears streaming as her face contorted into a twisted smile.

It was fortunate that, in her life, she had grown accustomed to avoiding people.  A person could spend their days searching for her, but if she didn’t want to be seen, she wouldn’t be.  But there was no challenge in avoiding her soldier-boy.  He seldom left his room and so the church itself became her closest companion. She grew to know every stone, every stairwell.  It wasn't her home, not truly, but it was the closest thing she had had in years. As long as she dressed properly and brushed her hair, she was even allowed to mass.

"No one I would have known would ever have come here," she had assured the priests.  For a while, it was true.  And then, on a day that should have been utterly ordinary, he was there.

She froze when she saw him.  Part of her thought perhaps she could run into his arms and they'd run away, just as he had always talked about.  Another part of her wanted to disappear back into the church and give herself into this new life, this life of piety and solitude. She let out an almost audible gasp when she realised that he was looking at her.  But he simply tipped his hat and walked towards the altar, kneeling with his hat as his side.  With a small sigh, she went and kneeled beside him.

"Are you atoning for your sins, monsieur?"

He shook his head.  "No, mademoiselle.  You see, my beloved's gone missing.  I'm praying that one day, God will be good and send her home to me."

The girl balled her fists in her skirt.  She knew quite clearly what he was doing. And so she made up her mind for herself; she would not leave here with him, no matter how guilty he made her feel.

"Haven't you heard, monsieur?  God's dead.  He's not looking out for you or your beloved.  He's not even looking out for me."

Montparnasse clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Naughty, naughty girl. Haven't you learned you're in a church?"

"What do you want?"

"I have a whole family to pray for.  I'm sure you understand.  My father-in-law and his younger daughter leave on the morrow for America."

"So far?"

He nodded.  "You see, he pulled a trick on a young man and got caught.  Even worse for him, the man once knew his daughter - my intended.  I believe they were friends once.  Marius, I believe, is his name.  The baron Pontmercy.  You see, he was poor when he knew my love, but he's quite wealthy now and lives with his pretty, young wife."

Never once as he spoke did he look at her, something she would forever be grateful for. 

"And what trick," she began, fighting to keep her voice steady.  "What was the trick your father-in-law tried?"

"To get money from him, that type of thing. He had blackmail against the baronne's father.  Yet he doesn't love her any less and demanded my poor father-in-law to leave France. So he is."

The girl nodded, her heart racing with fearful excitement. "I'm sure that the separation will be quite hard for you."

"Quite," he agreed.  "Harder still for him and his daughter.  You see, he's only just said his goodbyes to his wife."

The girl turned to face him.  "Is she not joining them?"  He did not miss the panic in her voice. Still not looking at her, he reached for where he knew her hand would be waiting and squeezed in tight.

"My mother-in-law died.  I'm mourning her."

"How?"

"In prison," he told her, holding her hand tighter still as he felt the warmth of her tears drop to their intertwined fingers. "It's funny, though, my girl didn't care much for her.  They had a poor relationship."

"But it was still her mother."

"Yes, that she was."

For nearly half an hour, they knelt there in silence, both mourning in their own way.  The girl kept telling herself not to cry.  _That's not my mother_ , she told herself.  _She might have been once but that is not my mother and I am not the girl who was her daughter._

A sharp squeeze of her hand brought her out of her thoughts.

"Who is that?"

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and followed her companion’s gaze. In the far corner, the kind priest stood talking to a tall man in a simple brown overcoat. Noticing her stare, the man looked towards the young pair, but the young girl quickly averted her eyes. "That's Monsieur Palomer – his brother’s a priest here.  One serves God, they say, and the other a memory."

"I know him."

"In what way?  His clothes don't look worth stealing."

He ignored this jibe.  "I saw him on the street the other day - weeks ago actually. I took what I thought would be a sum of money.  It was a letter."

"How exciting," the girl whispered coolly.

"Please.  He's looking for an acquaintance of my father-in-law."

"Who?"

"A man he's known for years.  My father-in-law had a third girl, back when they were all children.  A foster girl. And this man came and adopted her. This man here is that man's nephew."  He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and set it on the ground before him, keeping his eyes focused on the priest and his brother.  "She'd know where to find him. My 'Ponine.  Perhaps whatever God there is shall grant you her wisdom.  Helping him would be a good thing, mademoiselle."

When he looked up, the paper was gone and he could see in the dimness the flash of a grey skirt darting around the corner.  With a sad sigh, he put his hat back on his head and left the church.

Still inside its walls, the girl dashed about the church, looking everywhere she could until she found a pen.  Very, very carefully, she scribbled upon the bottom of the letter, doing her best to keep her script legible, determined that this act would be the one that saved her soul.

_La Baronne Pontmercy._

It had to be - who else would he marry so soon? Who else could so easily take all that she herself wanted?

Pleased with her work, she went and slipped it under the door where she knew the kind priest's brother slept.

"What are you doing?"  It was he.

She merely gasped and ran off.  She would not become more involved in this than she already was. It brought too much risk of being named. It was silly, she knew, to remain unnamed as she was. But a girl without a name could be anyone.  She could start over, live a life she would never otherwise have.

Her mother and brother were dead.

Two other brothers could very well be, for all she knew.

Her father had left, taking her sister with her.

And her only love, her one truest love, had married another.

The girl with a name had nothing. The nameless girl had hope.

Of course, as it so often does, hope did not come at once. In fact, it did not appear before her until the second week of September.  It sat on her pillow in the shape of a book marked with letters she knew, but words she could not read.  Grabbing it, she raced down the corridor, skidding to a halt before her soldier-boy's door.  With a deep breath, she knocked.

"Come in."

"It's me."

"I know."  And so she pushed open the door and entered his room.  A thick volume lay open on his desk. She stood in the doorway, hesitant to truly interrupt him.  But he had invited her in.

"What is this?" she demanded, holding the mysterious book out in front of her.  He barely glanced at her before looking back at his desk.

" _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_.  I thought you may enjoy it."

She threw the book upon the desk.  "I think you're still mocking me."

"Nonsense," he responded and, this time, there was no malice.  He picked up the book and held it out to her.  "Mary Wollstonecraft.  A quite impressive writer on the eve of the Revolution.  Women, she argued, ought to be more than pretty faces. Your minds, she believed, functioned just as well as our own."

She crossed her arms over her chest.  "I can only read in French.  This is nothing for me."

Her soldier-boy stared back and forth between her and the book. "I apologise, I shouldn't have assumed."  He looked around the room.  "See that chair there?  Bring it here."

Biting her lip, she obeyed, sitting herself there beside him. Running a hand through his blond curls, he stared at the desk, his lips pressed into a thin line. She jumped as he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Monsieur Palomer tells me that you, mademoiselle, are an angel sent from Heaven."

The girl smiled a little, noticing that, for perhaps the first time, there was nothing in his tone to mock her.  He may have been affirming her mere existence for all the straightforwardness of his voice.  "Does his brother agree?"

He shrugged, running his finger across the cover. "It seems to be a consensus amongst the priests that this poor little nameless child is a angel of God."

"I'm afraid they're quite wrong."

"Priest have a tendency for thinking everyone is either an angel or the devil.  Don’t let it worry you.” Once more, he spoke as though the girl’s very nature was as simple as the colour of her hair. She stared at him wide-eyed, only blinking when he spoke again.  “Now! Miss Wollstonecraft."

She sighed.  "I told you. I can't read it."

"Ah."  He paused for a long moment.  "Well, you see mademoiselle, it's been quite lonely in here.   Perhaps we'll read together.  I shall read aloud, translating the English to French, and you shall tell me what you think."

The girl nodded, taken aback by his sudden kindness. "I'm sorry for the way I've acted since we've gotten here," she told him quietly, pulling her knees up to her chest.  "I might have assumed you would want to be alone.  I should not have been so rude to you."

"And I to you," he said, meeting her gaze for the first time since she had entered the room.  "I'm afraid I was rather harsh with you.  I forget sometimes that you have lost people just as I have."

"Yes."  Everything that brought light into her life had been lost that day. She could still hear one sweet voice singing in her ear as another face smiled at her through her closed lids, a face that, in all likelihood, she would never see again. With a gasp, her eyes sprung open as she stared ahead, suddenly humiliated.  She could feel her cheeks redden with each passing second. Oh, how could she have been so foolish as to never say anything?

"Are you alright?"

She shook her head.  "I meant to tell you something, but I was angry.  I forgot."

He stared at her, his face not betraying any anger whatsoever.

"Aren't you cross with me?"

"Not until I know what I should be cross about."

The girl took a deep breath, prepared to face the full of her soldier-boy's wrath. 

"Are you scared of me?" he asked before she could begin.  "You know I will never hurt you, don't you?"

To his surprise, her response came in the form of a soft hiss, the tremor of her voice barely audible. "Do you remember our first meeting, monsieur?"

To her complete shock, he smiled. "I seem to recall a bloody little thing pulling me from a window."

But the girl had seen and heard too much in her short life.  She did not smile back. True, the boy was her only companion - the nearest thing she would ever again have to a friend - but she would not trust him.

"After that," and her voice was no warmer than before.

Her soldier-boy wasn't laughing anymore. "Is this a trick question, mademoiselle?"

"I recall a big hand reaching for my neck."

"Mademoiselle -"

"Have you ever had anyone try to strangle you before, monsieur?"

This time, he knew to stay silent.

"I have, monsieur.  It is not an experience I ever intend on going through again."  Still silence. "I am scared of you, monsieur, because should you attack me again -"

"I swear, mademoiselle, I don't know what came over me then, but I owe you my life.  I would never..." He trailed off at the sight of her raised hand. 

"I don't care for excuses. Should you attack me again, I will have saved your life for nothing.   I did not take a bullet through my breast only to be mocked, insulted, and harassed by something as weak as a man.  I am scared of you not because you frighten me, not because you’re some big clever man and I’m some pathetic little girl. I am scared because too many men are fools enough to think that.  I am scared that _you_ are not properly afraid of me."

For a minute, both sat in silence. Finally, with a deep breath, he extended his hand, only to immediately draw it back. He stared at it as thought it was a foreign object.  But again, he extended it, so very, very slowly, and let it hover a few inches from her arm.

"I will never hurt you.  Upon my life."

Her lips ever so slightly curving upwards, she reached for the hand still hovering by her shoulder and clasped it in both her own. 

"I couldn't carry you here myself. I had help."

He nodded.  He could remember a deep voice shifting quickly between anger and adoration.

"He came once to visit me."

"And I assume he brought you some sort of news?"

The girl nodded and bit her lip. Now she was the one refusing to make eye contact.  After a deep breath, she opened her mouth and let fall: "Pontmercy is alive."

In that moment, her soldier-boy's stony exterior seemed to crack. What emotion it was that crossed his face, she could not say.  But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished.  His face was once more utterly unreadable.

"You know him?"

She paused.  To say she knew him would be the same as stating her name.  Should her soldier-boy go to his friend and tell him of her, surely she would lose all anonymity. 

"Only that he fought with you and still lives."

"Is he happy?"

"He's married."

"Very well."  With that, he opened the book and began reading from the introduction.

"Monsieur?” she interrupted, hoping that her voice was not as high as it sounded to her own ears.  “Won't you send word to him?"

Her soldier-boy shook his head.  "No. If he's happy, I will not bother him."

"And if he's lonely?"

"He has his wife."

For a moment, all she could do was silently search for words and pray that he would turn to face her again.  Leaning forward, she placed a soft hand on his shoulder. "And what of his friends? Your friends.  He doesn’t have them."

Her soldier-boy’s eyes fluttered shut as his lips once more pressed together so tightly they all but disappeared.   "We all have our passions, mademoiselle. His is love, mine is justice."

"But surely the two _must_ overlap."

"I'm sure they do.  But suppose Marius is happy in his marriage and then I appear on his doorstep. 'Help me,' I demand of him. And what can he do but obey? He starts harbouring a fugitive and his wife must leave for her own safety and reputation.  Do I risk upsetting his happiness with the memories of our fallen comrades?"

The girl was very quiet.  She simply pulled her knees up to her chin and continued to stare at the rise and fall of his chest.  He made her wonder, her soldier-boy.  He made her think.  _For a man of stone_ , she dared not say aloud, _you care more deeply than I thought_.  She smiled to herself and began toying with the hem of her skirt, refusing to look up. For a long while, neither said anything.  She could feel her soldier-boy’s eyes upon her, but still focused on her own feet. Taking cue of her silence, he opened the book and began to read.

* * *

 

As summer turned to autumn, the city of Paris moved on from its summer upheaval.  The foolishness of schoolboys would not upset such a great city for long.  The sun shone bright and, for many, this was all that was needed for joy.  Children played in the streets, dancing through their mother's skirts.  Lovers walked through the parks, basking in the last days of summer warmth.

In the middle of the city, one man stood alone. Strawberry-blond locks framed his face in such mad tangles that a small girl bumped in to him and began to cry. He could not find it within himself to care.  He was standing in the middle of the September street, blinking in the too bright sun. Autumn afternoons were his favourites once, but now it took all of his power not to scream.  The sun was too hot on his skin, the breeze too cold. The air was too fresh and the noises too loud.  All of the beauty of Paris was gone.  He had once found beauty everywhere, but now all he saw was terror.

When the guard had given him his hat that morning and told him that the date was September the fourteenth, eighteen-hundred thirty two, he had been in shock.  How was it already September?

How was it still 1832?

He spent that first day wandering through Paris, searching for a familiar face.

He spent that first night wondering if he'd have better luck finding his friends at the bottom of the Seine or in some unmarked grave. But morning found him still on the streets.

He finally gave in and let himself kneel in an empty alley and cry. For over three months, he had been held captive from the world, captive from the sun.  He had been unconscious, as good as asleep, when all of his friends fell dead.  He had not been able to save a single one of them.  In the loneliness of nightfall, he often thought of what he could have done differently, but it was all so fast, so blurred.  He had been surrounded by soldiers, men fighting against his own.

"Vive la France!  Long live France!  Long live the future!"  His own words sang out in his mind.  He had expected the report of guns and yet all he felt was a sharp blow to the back of his head.  And then nothing.

Did his friends fight for him?  Had Enjolras gathered them around and called out "We fight for our fallen comrade, we fight for Prouvaire"?  Had his friends then fought for him and died for naught?

He collapsed to the ground, lying now on his stomach, and retched up all he could.  And when he was done, he stood and walked from shade to sun.  He didn't even know where he was anymore.  He had spent most of his life in Paris and still knew nothing.  Pressing his hands to his face, still shocked at the beard he found there, he sank back down, right there on the street, and leaned back against whatever building was unlucky enough to be behind him.

And then there was something warm in his hand and the sun no longer burnt his face.  Looking down, he saw in his hand what appeared to be a fresh roll.  Without bothering to look at whoever was blocking the sun from his face, he brought the bread to his lips.

"I thank you," was all he could manage to mutter before he began shoving the roll into his mouth, not caring at all how mad he looked.  When only seconds later he had swallowed the last crumb, he looked up to properly thank the giver.

A young woman in all black as bent over him, thick dark curls falling over her shoulders.  He let out a gasp.

"Mademoiselle Lanoire."

The woman straightened, a look of fear and, somehow, frustration upon her face.

"God bless you," she told him, her tone almost cold as turned away.

"Mademoiselle!"

"Lanoire!" he heard her hiss.

"No!  No, no, no!"  He threw himself forward and grabbed her skirt.  Mademoiselle Lanoire let out an indignant shriek and spun around.

"Do not think, monsieur, that I have not heard snark like your own every day of my life.  But you looked like a man in need.  Someone with a sense of gratitude.  Or at least the decency of silence."

"Your dress," he dared whisper.

"What? You worried perhaps it was just skin rather than clothe?"

He shook his head, desperate for the right words. "You always used to dress in black."

Mademoiselle Lanoire bit her lip, looking, if anything, more nervous than before. 

"You used to walk in the Luxembourg with an old man, with old white hairs. Monsieur Leblanc."

The woman took step back.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I'm afraid you have me mistaken for another."

"No, please!" He lunged himself forward and grasped at her skirt once more.  And, again, Mademoiselle Lanoire screamed.

"Please, mademoiselle!  Cosette!  Cosette, that is your name!"

She stopped her frantic search for assistance and dropped to her knees before him, her eyes wide as they bore into his own.

"Tell me how you know my name," she demanded in a voice that no being could ever bear to lie to.

"My friend," he said, bowing his head in shame. "He fancied you terribly. Why, he was practically singing the first time he managed to speak to you properly."  He laughed, brushing the tears from his eyes. "He came running into the café where we’d meet, raving about how Ursule wasn’t Ursule at all and that what she was was worlds better.”  For a moment, he thought of telling this Cosette how Marius had fought – bravely, he was sure – and how he had fallen – nobly, he was certain. But if this girl had had for Marius half the affection he had expressed for her…He could not bare to watch a woman cry.  But before he could think further, he could feel Cosette’s breath against his face, her nose mere inches from his own as she studied him with glistening eyes.

"Merciful God," she whispered and pressed her hands to his arms.  He could feel her trembling, as she pulled him until he stood.  She then hooked her arm through his and beckoned him to walk with her.  He was too tired to even protest. 

Somewhere it must have been considered a sin for a man as ragged as himself to carry such a fine woman on his arm, but together they walked through Paris and he tried to relearn where he was.  But at each turn was just another city street. Finally, they came upon a large home where Cosette opened the door with still shaking hands.

"Wait here," she told him softly, and then disappeared. He stood perfectly still. Perhaps once he would have been allowed in such a fine place, but surely he was no longer.  He should leave.  How strange it would be for a man such as himself to follow home such a pretty young girl.  No, her face was kindness enough, a reminder of all the beauty there was in the world, of how that face had once inspired such love and passion in his friend. No, he would not further intrude on Mademoiselle Lanoire's life.

He was about to turn and leave when upstairs a door slammed with such force the entire house shook.  Feet began pounding down the stairs and he feared that his presence had upset perhaps a father, brother, or husband.  But before he could rationalise the situation, a ghost appeared in the archway.  A tall, lean man with red brown hair pushed up in all directions stood staring at him with an expression not so different from his own.  For a long while, the two men watched each other wordlessly.   It was a harsh revelation. A beautiful, glorious, harsh revelation.  And then the two embraced with such force that they tumbled to the floor. At first, the only sound in the house was that of their mad laughter - that joyful sound of recognition and of love, of pure and utter relief.  And, slowly, the laughter turned to sobs.

"We are the only ones left?" asked Jehan, already sure of the answer.

Marius said nothing.  Instead, the two just continued to hold each other. They were, they knew, the only ones left.  And still that was better, worlds better, than being the only one left alone.

* * *

“’…instead of being supported by the reason and virtue of their fathers and brothers, have strengthened their own minds by struggling with their vices and follies; yet have never-‘”

"Do you agree with him?"

The soldier-boy looked up from the book, now all too used to his companion’s constant interruptions. “Whom?”

“Rousseau.”

"On certain aspects."

The girl sighed.  September had ended and the church was growing colder.  And each night, after the priests went to sleep, she snuck to her soldier-boy's room and there they read until their eyes ached. And, in all this time, they had yet to finish that book, their peace treaty.  "It takes time," he constantly assured her. "Wollstonecraft references a great many other writers.  If we did not stop to discuss them, we'd never know what she herself is saying."

Straightening her skirt, the girl stood and began to pace about the room.  Her soldier-boy placed the book on his lap and lifted a hand to massage his temple. It was late, but he had long since learned that dissuading the girl from anything only caused her to demand it more.

"Do you agree with him on education?"

He smiled and laughed, watching as his companion took a seat on the windowsill and scrutinised him with her bird-like eyes.

"Please don't laugh at me."

"I'm sorry.  Just, Rousseau says a great many things on education.  I know you'd rather not listen to me talk for hours and hours, so perhaps there was something specific you'd rather discuss?"

"Girls' education.  What’s-her-name, Emile’s girl."

"Ah, Sophie."

"Yes.  I don't like what he says."

He bit the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh again. "You haven't read it."

"But _she_ has," she said.  Soldier-boy raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.  "She's saying that our education - that is to say, that of the female sex - should not be so limited.  She's saying that we ought to be intellectual companions to men, that even if all we are are wives and mothers, we ought to be able to converse as men do. And yet Rousseau simply thought that our entire education should pertain to your sex.  That we are nothing if we cannot please the male mind and…less intellectual parts.”  She grinned as her soldier-boy flushed crimson and dropped his gaze. “And I think that's quite silly indeed."

The soldier-boy ran his thumb along the pages of the book before taking a deep breath and placing it upon the desk.  "You know,” he began, moving to sit beside her at the window.  “I used to think he was right.  That women were simply meant to be pretty things.  So I didn't concern myself with them."

"Why?"

"Because I had no need for simple pleasures. I would rather put my passions elsewhere.  And I knew so few women and practically none who shared my interests.  I deemed the entire sex as being unworthy of my time."

"But you've changed your mind?"

He didn't respond.

"Monsieur?"

"Mademoiselle?"

“You haven’t talked with any women before, have you? Not really?”

Her soldier-boy laughed what was perhaps his truest laugh in all the months they had known each other.  “You would have liked them, you know.  They’d have liked you.”

“Your friends?”

He nodded and turned his head away.  She watched as he brought a hand to his face and, for a moment, sat still as his shoulders trembled.  Just as she raised her hand to place upon his shoulder, he took a deep breath and turned to face her.

“I have a cousin,” he said quickly.  “A girl your own age, or near about.”

The girl smiled, her hands now folded in her lap, hidden in the folds of her skirt.  “She’s family, then.  That doesn’t count.”

He ignored her.  “An incredibly clever young lady.  She could make me look like a fool.  But I always assumed her intellect made her unique in her sex.”

“And now you think otherwise?”

He nodded, turning away from her.  “You’re a smart girl.  Smarter than I think you realise.  Were you a man, I think you would have paved quite the life for yourself.”

“Well, that’s silly,” she murmured, standing and walking back to the desk, examining the stack of books she had yet to read.

“That I think you’re clever?”

“That a person must be a man to make their own way in the world.”

She continued picking up books, examining them, and setting them down again, allowing her fingers to trace each title and wondering when the day would come when she would be the one reading aloud.

“Yes,” came his voice directly behind her and she jumped and turned.  He smiled and took the book from her hands.  “Quite silly, indeed.”

He walked to his bed and sat down at the foot of it. “Have you read Condorcet?”

The girl shook her head.

“We’ll read him after Wollstonecraft.  A bit of a radical, but I think you’ll appreciate it.”

“I’m sure I will, monsieur.”

When silence fell again, it lacked all the warmth and comfort that their shared silences had had in the past.  In truth, neither knew anything about the other. To him, she was as she was to the rest of the world: a ghost.  To her, he was perhaps the closest thing she would ever have again to a friend.  But her soldier-boy did not have friends, as he had made clear on countless occasions. And, as he made clear now, what friends he had were not of her sex.  She wondered if, for him, there was any friendship, any camaraderie between them. Or, perhaps, if their relationship was based solely on debts that could never be paid. 

“Sebastien.”  His words broke through her reverie with such forced that she dropped the book she had just picked up – Voltaire.  Another name she was familiar with.

“Who?”  Sebastien was a common name, she knew, but if he was a philosopher, his works were as foreign to her as all the rest.

Her soldier-boy shrugged.  “My name,” and he looked at her as though daring her to give her own.

“Oh,” was her only response.

He looked down at his lap and, before he could open his mouth, she turned and ran from the room.  She did not stop until she was in her own, door bolted, and clutched the footboard of her bed to keep from shaking.

He had given her his name.  An identifier.  A thing that was his to respond to.  He was not like her.  He was not a nobody without a soul to care about him.  He had a name.  He had people to return to, a family.  Outside of this church, should he seek it, a life waited for him.

All at once it occurred to her how very, very alone she was.

Without bothering to change into her nightgown, the girl crawled into her bed and let herself cry.  She thought back to a time when sobbing at night brought a loving mother and a concerned father running to her bedside to ensure the well-being of their darling angel.  But that was only a memory.  No one would come to her aide.  Not even soldier-boy – Sebastien. She rolled to her side and stared at the lone candle on the bedside table, flickering as wind came through her open window.

_I should shut it_ , she thought, for she had no desire to ever feel the cold as she so often had in winters past.  But she couldn’t bring herself to rise.

_What does it matter?  I was always destined to freeze._   It was not, she assumed, as though anyone would care when she was gone. No. He was Sebastien. He was not her soldier-boy, he was not her friend.  He was barely her tutor.  He was a man with a name and she was nobody, simply a voice to pass the time as he waited for a new life to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotation from the beginning of the third section, "...instead of being supported..." is from chapter 5 of Mary Wollstonecraft's _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_ , page 173 in the "Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought" edition.


	4. The Caged Bird Still Sings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read! Reviews/comments are always appreciated!

"Do you have a spare blanket?" 

Sebastien looked up to see the girl standing in his doorway, wearing only her nightgown and her own blanket, draped over her shoulders, as protection from the late October chill.

"It's past one, mademoiselle.  You should be sleeping."

With an exaggerated sigh, she sauntered to his bed and plopped herself down on the end.  "I _can't._   Anyway, that doesn't answer my question. Do you?"

Standing from the small desk, he moved to sit beside her.  "I'm sorry.  I only have what's on the bed."

The girl rolled her eyes and let herself fall backwards.  "I could just stay here, I suppose. Your room’s warmer than mine, I think."

Sebastien flushed and moved himself further from her.  "You probably left your window open.”

“The walls are confining.”

In another life, he may have laughed at her.  But he understood.  Life in a single building could never be anything but confining. So he simply nodded and asked, “Didn’t I give you that Pizan?  I often find reading relaxing when I can't sleep."

"That's different," she whined. 

"Oh?"

"You never sleep anyway."

At that, he couldn't help but laugh.  "Then clearly I don't read as much as I should." He ducked as his own pillow came flying at his face.  "Do I bore you as a companion?"

"Yes," she said with another heavy sigh as she pushed herself back to sitting. "My eyes would like to sleep, but there is too much in my head."

“And you came to share it with me?”

She shook her head.  “I just thought I’d sit here for a while, monsieur.”

In the month since he had given her his name, she had never once used it. He remained monsieur and she mademoiselle.  Sebastien never left her lips.  She sealed it deep within her as she did with her own name and those of the people she might have once known.  It was as deep within her as everything else she possessed.  All he knew of her was her sharp wit and her inability to sing - though that never stopped the constant tunes that came from her room. "You're worse than a bird," he had told her. She had laughed at that and cooed in his face. It was one of many conversations that reminded the young revolutionary that his companion could be no more than a child, prone to pulling pranks and laughing too hard at unintended jokes.

Now, looking at the girl sitting at the foot of his bed, it was his own turn to sigh. If he were to be honest with himself, he felt guilty.  True, the girl had come to the barricade of her own volition, but he still, in a way, felt just as responsible for the loss of her life as he did for the deaths of his friends.  "Very well. Tell me a story."

The girl's hand immediately stopped picking at her sleeve.  "I'm sorry?"

Sebastien shrugged.  "I’m not sleeping either.  So you may as well entertain me with your busy mind."

"You'll be disappointed then, monsieur.  I'm not in a philosophising mood.  I just want to sit, not remember all your silly philosophers."

"Oh, come!  You were a child not long ago."

"Is that an insult?"

Again, he shrugged.  "Little girls like their stories.  My cousin used to spin the most wild of stories.  Surely you remember some of your childhood.  Didn't you ever tell stories?  Stories that don’t have a deep philosophic story. Just words."

"Once."

"When you had a name?"

That earned him a small laugh, but when he looked up, the girl was looking at her lap, a sad smile upon her face.  "When I had a name."

"Then tell me a story."

"No."

"No?"

The girl shook her head and stood. "You should sleep, monsieur."

He stood and went to open the door for her.  "Have I scared you away?"

The girl snorted. "Monsieur Sebastien _le philosophe_ wants a fairy tale."

"Humour me."

"Humour you?" She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted an eyebrow.

"You think you're quite clever."

"So I've been told."

"Very well, then.  I thought perhaps you would like to tell a story."

The girl sighed once more, though this time there was no humorous exaggeration. "You're nearly healthy again."

"That's not a story, mademoiselle.  That is fact."

"You'll have to leave here soon."

"I suppose I shall."

"Goodnight, monsieur."  He could not miss the way her voice cracked when she pulled away from him to leave. But he decided to let her leave like that, as she too often did, to cry herself to sleep and let herself believe he would not know.

The first week after he decided to tolerate her had many nights that ended as such. They would come to a concept she did not know, he would, as best he could, explain it to the child. She would then berate him for patronising her and he would let her know exactly what he thought of her. Once he had provoked her to slapping him hard across the face, but normally she would spit back something equally as vile before running off to her own room.

Come morning, all would be well.  And, after that week, he learned that, despite her childlike eyes and maturity, his companion was not the little doll he thought all of her sex to be. She thought with a man's mind (a more recent comment that got him hit over the head with her precious Wollstonecraft), so he stopped treating her like a child and started treating her as if she were a man.  He explained the philosophy as a university professor would, as though they were equals.  For a time, that had worked.  But the last week, as their lessons moved from his room to nooks all over the church, he was frequently reminded of the mental frailty of her sex.  More than once in the last week had she completely strayed from the topic, only to stand up in the midst of her own conversation and leave.

The night before, she had caught him distractedly looking out the window.

"What has so captivated you, monsieur?" she had asked, playfully slapping his leg to draw his attention back to her. 

"I've missed the stars."

She had gasped mockingly.  "Our noble leader? Missing the stars!"

Solemnly, he had looked at her.  "The sky is expansive, mademoiselle.  I shall be glad to be out there again."

She had let out a _humph_ at that and, upon reading two more lines from their book, she had abruptly slammed it shut and left without so much as a "Goodnight, monsieur."

As his health improved, so did his humour. Yet she grew more bitter with each passing day.

_It's as though she wishes I remained ill,_ he thought, listening as her footsteps faded down the corridor.  _She doesn't want me to be free.  She doesn't even want to be free herself._

Yawning, he shut the door and undressed for bed.  Lighting a candle, he crawled into bed and prepared to read himself to sleep, unwilling to think more of his peculiar companion. Yet, she would not leave his mind. Such an odd girl, and so very young. Avoiding attention would be no easy task when they left their little haven.  No, finding her a situation, a discreet one, would be a challenge.

Blinking, he sat straight up in bed, sending his book clattering to the floor. Suddenly her behaviour was no longer surrounded by the mysteries of the female mind. Throwing on his dressing gown, he grabbed the candle and raced from his room.

"Mademoiselle," he only half whispered, knocking softly on her door.  "Please, I need to speak with you."

There was a shuffle and then the door opened, the girl staring up at him through heavy lids.

"It's late," she said, pushing her thick dark braid behind her shoulder. "Past two, I think."

"You don't have a family, no relations."

Closing her eyes, the girl sucked in a deep breath.  "Yes, monsieur.  Shockingly, this is something of which I'm quite aware."

"You're alone."

"Sebastien!" He had never before heard her voice so tired as it did when she used his name.  Her eyes found his and, as he had so many weeks before, so many months, found himself wondering if she was a girl at all.  Her eyes, which had always reassured him of her youth, suddenly looked decades older than they had moments before.

"Monsieur," she said in a heavy tone.  "I know this.  But it's a thought for the day.  For my own mind. You should be sleeping. I feel bad knowing you are up with thoughts of me." 

He shook his head.  "You think I'm going to leave here when my health is restored."

"As you've told me.  And it's only right.  Monsieur le cure's hospitality and generosity defy all I know of this world."

"And you?"

The girl gave a sad smile and leaned her head against the doorframe. "I'm a clever girl, monsieur.  I'll find my way."

"You're a silly girl.  You think I'm going to leave you here."

The girl immediately stood to her full height and stared at him with wide, and suddenly awake, eyes, her lips slightly parted.  For a moment, Sebastien allowed himself the pleasure of knowing his hypothesis was correct. But then, very slowly (as was his habit when initiating contact with this strange little creature), he placed a hand on her upper arm and squeezed lightly.

"I owe you my life, mademoiselle.  Don't think I will leave you alone to find your own way." She bit her lip as he released her arm. "Do try and sleep, mademoiselle," he murmured and he turned to leave.

"Sebastien!"

He spun around with a finger pressed to his lips.  "The good priest is long asleep!"

The girl grinned through the fingers splayed across her mouth.  "Do you still want a story?"

"A fairy tale?"

She nodded.  "Humour me. I'm a child, remember?"

He smiled at that and gestured for her to lead the way to their newest spot, a small alcove on the highest story with a large window - the closest either got to Paris.

She placed herself on the windowsill, curling her legs up to her chest. As he placed the candle between them, he could not help but notice the way she stared at her own feet, not so much as glancing up when he sat down beside her.

"So, mademoiselle, tell me your fairy tale."

"I should warn you, it is not the happiest of tales," she said, still playing with the hem of her nightgown.

"All the more interesting."

"Very well," she sighed, pulling her shawl tighter around her, clearly having already decided on her tale.  "Then I shall start at the beginning:

"This is a princess story.  I hope that doesn't disappoint you.  I don't think I'll care much even if it does.  It is the story of the happiest princess to ever live and her story must be told. She was very young, this princess. And, when the story starts, she was the first of two.  These two princesses were happy as can be.  Plump and pretty, their parents, the king and queen, gave them all they could desire.  One day, as the first princess approached her third year, another little girl appeared. This girl was not a princess. So, when she was left in the care of the king and queen, she was treated as such.  Frills and lace and pretty dolls were saved for the princesses.  The third girl darned their socks.  The years passed and the princesses grew lovelier and lovelier.  Life was happy.  Eventually, a little prince was born, but that mattered not. The king and queen loved their little princesses and all was bliss.

"But one day everything changed.  Another king came to the castle, a king far richer and more powerful than the father of the two princesses.  He came bearing dolls and smiles and all things desired by happy children. But his gifts and kind words weren't for the two princesses.  They were, in fact, for the third girl.  It turned out that she too had been a princess all along and the new king was here to take her as his own daughter.  When he saw her dressed in rags, he placed a curse on the king and queen and all their children.  But the old king had only laughed, for they were good people who god would not see fit to curse.  They had made a mistake, an honest one. 

"But by the next winter, the king's authority was wavering.  Less and less lace appeared on the dresses of the young princesses and, before long, the once plump and lovely girls grew skinny and ugly.  Lace turned to rags in their hands.  Two more babies came to their mother, but they were not princes as their brother had been. They were nothing to the public and less to their parents.  Even that first son lost what little affection had been spared to him, leftover affection from the princesses who weren't princesses any longer.

"They lost their title and their home, not to revolutionaries as yourself, monsieur, but to the curse.  For they had wronged that third little girl, the secret princess, and God abandoned them.  The secret princess grew lovely in her palace but the rest grew poorer and uglier as the years passed.  In the end of her fifteenth year however, the girl who had once been a princess saw, however, a sign of hope and renewal.

"A young duke befriended her.  Once, she may have desired only a prince. But the duke was kind to her, kinder than anyone had been since she lost her crown.  She grew to love him, for what's a princess story without romance? At night, she would fall asleep in his arms.  Come morning, she would realise it had been the wind holding her through the night, for her duke would never love her.  No, for another had stolen his heart.  A beautiful princess who had spent her childhood in rags.  Yes, monsieur, the very same secret princess who had shared her childhood with she who was now less than nothing.

"But then the unthinkable happened.  A war broke out and all the young men, the duke included, went to fight. The poor girl grew mad with a sick mixture of grief and joy.  Should her duke fight in the war, he was likely to die and the thought of him dying filled her with unthinkable dread.  But should he die, and should she join him, he would be hers for eternity, forever in the truest heaven there was,"

Here she fell silent, her eyes still focused on her feet.  There her gaze remained, even when he spoke.

"So how does it end?  Your... story."

It was several minutes before she acknowledged him.  Finally, she raised her eyes until they met his, but he could not help but feel as though it was not him she was looking at. Behind those eyes, he was certain, was a world he would never know, never understand.  He had known this since the first time he had looked at her.  But now, for the first time, he wanted to know.  He smiled, hoping to encourage her to finish her tale.  And she did.

"She died, monsieur.  She went to the battle and was killed.  For the first time, when she fell asleep in the gentle arms of her duke, it was real."

"Did she succeed?"

"If you view death as success, monsieur."

"In heaven.  Did he join her in heaven?"

The girl sighed and pushed herself off the windowsill.  "There is no heaven, monsieur. There's not even hell, except that which is on Earth.  I suppose that's the real tragedy.  She never got to find him.  She never even got to know if he followed her.  I told you - it's not a happy story."  She yawned and hugged herself.  "What time is it?"

"Past three.  Probably nearing four."

"I'm sorry, then, to have kept you awake."

He stood and, holding the candle in front of him, walked her back to her room. "It's of little consequence," he told her as they walked.  "It was a good story.  Perhaps one day you'll tell me another."

"Perhaps." Without another word, she shut door and left him alone in the corridor to ponder the depths of her tale.

* * *

 

 Slowly October became November.  The days grew shorter and shorter and, after a quick period of the most intense of autumn colours, the world grew melancholy.  Life became a routine.  Each Monday, Thursday, and, to his wife's disapproval, Sunday, Maris Pontmercy would join Jean Prouvaire in the Luxembourg and, bundled against the growing cold, the two would play a silent game of chess. They would return home and have a small drink with Cosette.  On Mondays and Thursdays, the three would all have their supper together with the two young boys whom Cosette had vowed to raise as her own (or, as Aunt Gillenormand constantly reminded her, until the whore - that is to say their mother - could be found).

On Sundays, however, Jehan would come to the Pontmercy's for a drink, but leave soon after, each week with a different excuse.  Almost as soon as he left, there would be a knock at the door and Grandfather would allow in the baronne's pretty friend with the Italian name he could never seem to get right ("Musichetta," Marius sighed week after week. "Honestly, Grandfather, it's not so hard") and the young lady's incredibly French grandmother, who seemed to take great joy in Monsieur Gillenormard's inability to pronounce anything remotely Italian.

It was an odd, unspoken arrangement that all traces of Jehan were gone before Musichetta set foot in the house.  It had all started on the eighteenth of September, four days after Marius found his comrade standing in the entrance hall.  Musichetta had come for tea and coffee with the Pontmercys, as she so often did, and upon seeing her, Jehan had all but jumped out of his chair and, nearly in tears, had kissed her upon each cheek. In return, Musichetta had fainted.  "That must be the first time Musichetta Marmo has fainted in her whole life," he had said in a shaking voice as Marius carried Musichetta to the couch. She woke up sobbing and, for the first time, Marius saw the depth of all the grief and anger that he and Cosette had always known were boiling inside her.

After that, despite Cosette's attempts to keep the peace, Jehan would make himself scarce the moment the seamstress's name was brought up.  He asked about her each time he saw Cosette. "Joly was one of my dearest friends.  Lesgle as well. 'Chetta was my friend once too."  But she never asked about him.  Marius was a friend of her boys, but it was not the same.  He was a boy with French blood and a good head. And though it killed her that he survived the battle when her own boys could not, she knew he was not part of their society.  It was not his battle to fight in the first place.  Jehan, on the other hand...

"It makes sense to her," Cosette had explained to her husband as she curled herself into his chest one October night.  "It's not that she wishes he were dead. Whatever she may say, she still values his friendship.  But you've said so yourself: you had a great many friends among those boys, darling, but as individuals, not as a collective.  For her, he's different from you.  He represents them all."

Marius had waited, as he always did, for Cosette to sleep before he let himself cry. Another unspoken arrangement. Cosette would slow her breathing, Marius would cry, and Cosette, never speaking or opening her eyes, would hold him tighter.  True, he had not always been a Friend of the A.B.C, but he loved them all the same.

On the second Sunday of November, Marius insisted that Jehan not leave until they said goodbye.  And then, squeezing his wife's shoulder, he got into his carriage and left.  Jehan stared out into the rain after him.

"He's getting Musichetta, isn't he?"

"It’s pouring, it's only polite."

"I suppose."  And the two fell silent.

Cosette watched as Jehan moved from the window to Marius's desk to the fireplace. She watched as his fingers ghosted along the mantel, lingering for the slightest moment on the rosette that lay next to the small portrait that Grandfather had done in honour of Cosette and Marius's marriage. 

"Jehan?"

"Mmm?"

"Smile. Please."

"For you, Cosette?  Always."

Cosette smiled.  "You and my husband are truly the mot chivalrous of gentleman."

Clasping his hands behind his back, Jehan walked over to where she sat on the couch. "We must be, Madame, in the presence of such a lady."

With a laugh, Cosette hit him affectionately on the arm.  "Come," she said, pulling at his wrist. "Sit with me."

Ever the gentleman, he obeyed.

"I worry about you," she told him candidly.  "Marius, too.  We were up talking of you last night, you know."

Jehan bowed his head.  Despite the misunderstanding of their first meeting, the two had taken a great and immediate liking to each other.  As quickly as Jean Valjean had become her father, Jean Prouvaire became her brother.  Yet the joy she had so easily brought to her father could not mask Prouvaire's despair. _Or perhaps_ , she thought, _I am just now old enough to know when I'm deceived._

Squeezing her hand, Jehan placed a light kiss on her forehead. "That's a very silly thing indeed, Cosette.  You've only been married a few months.  Surely you and your husband have better things to do in bed than discuss me."

But Cosette didn't laugh.  "Please, Jehan.  You're our dearest friend.  You and 'Chetta. And please believe me when I say it kills me to have things as they are.  You're both too dear to me for this nonsense to continue."

"Which is why you won't let me leave until your husband returns. And he will return with Mademoiselle Marmo.  It's crueller to her than to me."

"Please," she said softly, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to it. "For me.  For Marius."

Jehan sighed.  "And what of her grandmother?  She knows nothing of 'Chetta's life.  And you know full well that both of us will cry at least once tonight.  What will you say then?"

"Her grandmother has a bit of a head cold tonight.  She's coming alone.  A baron's too good of a friend to abandon for an old lady. 'Even if his baronne's off-colour.'"

Despite her laugh, Jehan pulled her close.  "She didn't really say that, did she?"

"Mm-hm."

"Off-colour? Really?"

"Oh, yes.  I think it's quite funny."

"Liar."

Silently, Cosette leaned into him.  He held her for a moment, rubbing her arm and caressing her as a man cares for his young sister. 

"It's better than the alternative."

"Thinking it's funny?"

Cosette nodded against him.  "If I can't laugh at the way I'm treated, I'll cry.  If I cry, I'll become angry and, if I become angry, I shall give people all the more reason to hate me.  You know, more people call me 'girl' than they do 'Madame la Baronne.'  Why, just Tuesday I went with 'Chetta to pick up a hat for Marius, my Marius, and that hatter asked her if he should give her the box or if her girl would carry it." Jehan pulled her tighter hearing her voice thicken in her throat.  "Marius and my father before him may buy me the finest clothes they can afford.  But I could be the best dressed lady in Paris and I would still only be the little dark girl who thinks she can play Baronne.  So I laugh at them because at least that reminds me that they're wrong."

He said nothing when she stopped.  Nowhere on earth lived there a woman more kind and deserving of all the world than Cosette Pontmercy.  No woman could pinch her husband's wrist to make sure his head was as high as her own when they went about the city.

"How on Earth do you do this?"

"What?" But before he could respond, Cosette had jumped off the couch and all but ran to the window.  "Oh, Jehan!  Look, the rain's stopped!"

And Jehan could not help but laugh.  "That.  How do you do that?  In one breath you tell me of all the injustice you suffer, in the next you tell me how beautiful the world is."

Cosette turned back to him.  "You're the poet.  You tell me."

He shook his head.  "I may have been a poet once, Cosette, but that was a long time ago.  Another life.  I look at you and at Marius and 'Chetta, too, and I see that there must still be beauty in the world.  But whether I am in a garden or on the streets, no matter where I look, I can't find any beauty. I am lost among all I used to know.  I used to see all the beauty, all the hope and joy that you see.  And now I can't."

With a heavy sigh, Cosette returned to her place beside him.  “You just have to look harder.  One can only see all the hope and beauty that does exist once they realise all the injustice that coexists alongside them.”

“All of my friends are dead, Cosette,” shutting his eyes as his voice broke. “Every single one of them save for Marius.  They all died and I was helpless to stop it.  How am I to find hope with that?”

Cosette wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close.  “May I tell you a story?”  She could feel him nod against her.

“I haven’t even told Marius this before,” she began, her voice suddenly graver than he had expected.  “But I was not always as lucky and not always as loved as I am today.  My mother was no one and I know nothing about the man that fathered me.  All I remember of my mother was that she was the most beautiful woman in the entire world and she loved me.  But my father left her unwed with a small child, so she had to do what she could to see me fed.

“No one’s willing to look out for an unwed mother, Jehan.  It was truer then, but still true now. So she left me with another family who had two girls about my age.  They promised to care for me until my mother had saved up enough to come get me. They promised to love me as if I were one of their own.  But they lied.  I was less than a servant to them.  They took my clothes and gave them to their own girls while I was left in rags. It fell to me to clean the house, sew, do the shopping.  And I was not even three when my mother left me there.

“But she never knew any of this.  She got work and sent money for me, money that I never benefited from. When she lost her job, she sold all she could to send me money.  She even sold herself.  And, when she died, my father, my real father - the one who loved me - promised to care for me.  And he did. And I was so, so happy.”

Cosette finished her story with tears streaming down her face. “So there,” she said softly, her back perfectly straight as she stared ahead.  “I grew up as impoverished as anyone could.  For five years, no one ever showed me any kindness. But I still knew it existed. And now - now on most days I still know how to be happy.”

For a long while, they sat there in absolute silence.  After several minutes, Cosette allowed herself to lean back against Jehan and thanked him silently for his continued silence for not making her say any more, for not telling her to smile and dry her tears.

“That will be Marius,” she finally said, in response to the sound of wheels outside.

Jehan squeezed her hand.  “And ‘Chetta.”

“And ‘Chetta.”

Jehan sighed.  “Very well. I’ll stay, if it’s so important to you.”

Cosette shook her head.  “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you, Jehan. I just…”

“You want us all to be happy.”

“Very much so.”

“Does she know I’m here?”

“Marius should have told her on the way.”

Jehan sucked in another deep breath.  “Then I will try to be happy, if only so your and your husband’s sneaky work doesn’t go to waste.”

With a soft smile, Cosette rose and went to the door, silently preparing herself for the dinner to come.  And, to her surprise, there was peace.

* * *

The same, however, could not be said for the little church across the city. For Sebastien, that morning had started off like any other - raining and grey with the horrible songs of his companion waking him up far too early.  After nearly half an hour of pulling his pillow over his head, he dressed himself and went to knock angrily on her door. 

“What the Hell are you doing?” he demanded the moment his companion opened the door.

She lifted up a braid with a half-tied bow and waved it before his nose. “My hair, monsieur.”

“I could hear you singing from my room.”

With a dramatic sigh, the girl finished tying the ribbon and threw her braid back over her shoulder.  “I was _happy_ this morning, monsieur,” she declared, turning around and walking back into her room, only looking over her shoulder once to beckon him to join her.

“Happy?” In all his months of knowing the girl, happiness was perhaps the last word he would even think that she would use to describe herself.

“Mhm. I finished Pizan last night.”

He smiled, sitting himself down in her chair.  It was no easy read, the book which he had given her. He had been nothing short of shocked when she had proudly declared that she would read this one on her own. “And?  What did you think?”

The girl grabbed the book from her nightstand and sat at the foot of her bed. “I don’t know.”

“Oh?”

“It was… I think I liked it.  I just... it was hard.”

At that, Sebastien smiled.  “It should be.  It’s over four hundred years old.  I didn’t expect you to finish it until at least December.  This is nearly half a month early.”

The girl smiled at that.  “I’m learning, I guess.”  She paused for a moment, running fingers over the cover as though the book held all the mysteries within her.  “Monsieur?”

He looked up and, to his surprise, was met by eyes glistening with tears unshed, the girl’s face twisted into a grimace that made him almost want to match it. “Are you unwell?” he asked, rising from his chair.

The girl shook her head, but still the look upon her face made him wonder if she was about to be ill.  But she just shook her head again and waved him off.  “What - what is the date today?”

“The eighteenth,” he responded promptly.  “Are you sure you’re well?” he asked, approaching her again. “I’ve never seen you so white.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and muttered something he couldn’t make out. Grasping her shoulder, he sat next to her.  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said softly, grabbing her face and willing her to look at him. In all her fits, in all her anger and sadness, he had never seen her so pale.  She looked as though death itself had taken her over and it took all of his strength to prevent himself from shaking along with her.

“Please,” was her only whisper.

“What? Should I have someone send for a doctor?”

The girl shook her head and then, suddenly, stood with such force that he all but slipped from the foot of her bed.  “Leave.  Please. Just leave me.”

Trembling, he stood and took a step towards her.  “Mademoiselle?”

She spun around and hurled her book at him with all of her strength, hitting him in the middle of his face and forcing him to stumble backwards. “Leave me!” she shrieked, her face mad as she advanced towards him.  “Get out!  Go away!”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he demanded, surprised at the calmness of his own voice.

“Get OUT!” And, holding up his arms to protect his face, he obeyed, her cries following him until he cleared the door.

He heard it slam the moment he turned the corner, however, and immediately turned back.  Through the door, he could hear her sobs, loud and dry.  He must have stood there for nearly a quarter of an hour before, unable to hear her misery any longer, he went back to his own room.

It made no sense.  She had woken up happy that morning, she had told him so herself.  She had been full of such joyful pride and then, suddenly, it had all vanished.  There had been no rhyme or reason to it.  And, despite the girl’s often whirlwind emotions, he had found reason.  For since that night only a few weeks ago, when he had informed her, to her utter disbelief, that he would not abandon her, she had not shed a single tear.  At least, not one that he knew of.

After the better part of an hour, he rose again to see if the girl’s crying had subsided.  Yet when he got to her door, he could still hear the hysterical sobs within.  They grew neither softer nor louder when, after convincing himself that it was in both of their best interest, he knocked. Waiting only another moment to give her the chance to respond, he slowly pushed the door open.

The girl was sitting on her windowsill, the cool November winds having long since swept her hair out of its braid.  Slowly, he approached her, not daring to give her cause to jump. 

“Mademoiselle?” She didn’t look up. “Mademoiselle, you’ll get sick with the window open like that.”  He reached out his hand, hoping that she would take it and come away from the open air.

“Do you ever wonder,” she choked through her sobs, “if you could fly? If you could just step out a window and go to heaven and never have to worry again?”

He took another step forward.  “I think the road to salvation is longer than that.”

To his surprise, her sobs quieted and, after another minute, she turned to face him.  When she spoke, her ragged voice was barely above a whisper and sent through him a chill that rooted him to the ground.  In the hour since he had seen her last, her voice seemed to have aged fifty years. “But don’t you just ever pretend you have wings?  That you could fly as you please?”

“When I was a child,” he finally managed to respond.

At that, the girl let out a choked sound and allowed herself to fall from the ledge back into her room.  He watched motionlessly as she pulled her knees to her chest and tried to melt into her dress.  In a blink, he was kneeling beside her and pulling her to her feet.  When she did nothing but lean against him as though she were no more than a doll, he hoisted her into his arms and made his way towards her bed.

“I’m seventeen,” she whispered as he set her down.  She grabbed the pillow from beside her and held it close, as though she could make believe she were talking to it rather than Sebastien. 

“I’m sorry?”  He sat beside her, wondering if he had heard her correctly.

Sniffling, she looked up at him.  Her face and eyes were nearly as red as blood.  A mixture of snot and tears dripped slowly from her chin to her pillow, mixing with the stray hairs that now fell around her face.

“I’m seventeen,” she repeated.  “Today.  I’m seventeen today.  November eighteenth, eighteen fifteen.”

She continued to look at him with wide, red eyes as he stared at her with an open mouth.

_Seventeen_.  He had always been sure that she was young, but to hear the words actually leave her mouth - _I’m seventeen_. She did not just appear to be a child - she was one.  She was the sixteen year old child who had pulled him from the barricade and carried him through Paris to safety.

Quickly, he turned his gaze from her and closed his still gaping mouth. “I - um - it’s your birthday?”

“Yes,” came her trembling response.

He tried to force himself to laugh, to pretend that her youth didn’t scare him. That there was nothing terrifying about a child so young having gone through all that the girl beside him had gone through.  “You - you should have told me.  I would have gotten you something.  For your birthday.”

Her laugh, despite the rawness left from her tears, was more convincing than his own. “That’s silly, monsieur. I don’t need anything.”

With a sad smile, he turned to face her.  She was still clutching her pillow, leaning against the headboard of her bed. Her face and eyes were slowly returning to their previous, eerily pale colour.  With a small attempt to return his smile, she brushed her hair out of her face. 

“I shouldn’t have acted like that.  I’m sorry.”

He shook his head.  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure that this wasn’t how you imagined turning seventeen, was it?”  She glanced down at her lap in response.  “What do you normally do on your birthday?”

“Nothing,” she murmured, plucking a piece of lint from her skirt and flicking it to the floor.

“So last year you spent your birthday in tears?”

Squeezing her eyes shut, the girl tilted her head back in an attempted to prevent more tears from falling.  “My father gave me some money.  Just a little. I bought some bread and my brother and I tried to feed the sparrows, but the pigeons kept taking everything. But I always liked the sparrows more.  When we were little, my sister and I used to chase them.  I think she did it because I did.  And I did it because I kept wondering if, one day, they’d let me fly away with them.”  Sniffling, she brought her arm to her face and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Silly, isn’t it? Wanting at seventeen the same things you wanted when you were three?”

“It’s not silly at all,” he managed to say.  But he could feel his hands shaking.  In just a matter of seconds, she had confirmed to him more details about her life than she had in the last five months. She had a brother and a sister. She had a father who gave her money for her birthday.  Money was special.  Money was rare. And, if all this was true, perhaps the rest of her fairy tale had some truth to it as well.  Perhaps she had fallen in love with one of his friends. Perhaps she knew nothing of that man’s death.  Perhaps she had joined the barricade with a selfish and broken heart.

Perhaps that story was her life.  Perhaps that was the life she had wanted to escape from for all of her seventeen years. It was the life she was still trying so very hard to leave.

So, in that moment, he decided that he would never again press her for her name. If she wanted to escape the life of her past, he would not stop her.  Seventeen years was a long time to want to be something you weren’t.

“You expect me,” he said finally, “to continue to call you ‘mademoiselle’ and ‘mademoiselle’ alone forever?”

“Only as long as you know me.”

“And if I were to call you something else, would you respond?”

She arched her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“If I called you Sparrow, would you respond to it?”

The girl dropped her gaze back to her lap and, for a moment, he worried that perhaps she would again accuse him of mocking her.  In the past, her accusations were valid.  But today, he had decided, the girl would be renamed.

“‘Sparrow isn’t a girl’s name.”

“No, it’s a bird’s name.”

When the girl raised her face to him, he saw, for the first time, the smile of a young girl.  The way her eyes opened wide in surprise, the way she bit her lower lip as though he had embarrassed her. But she was happy, he could tell.

“I think I would.  Respond, I mean. If you were to call me that.”

“Good. Everyone should have a name, even if it’s not the name we’re born with.  It’s the most important thing you can have.”

The girl - Sparrow - laughed.  “I think food and a bed might rival it.”

But Sebastien shook his head.  “Food and a bed can be taken away.  But your name is only gone when you give it up.  No one can take it away from you.  No one can ever tell me that I am not Sebastien, just as no one can tell you that you are not Sparrow.”

“Sparrow,” she echoed, testing the name on her lips.  “Sparrow.  I could fly with a name like that.”

He smiled, watching as she almost silently whispered her new name over and over again, as though the more she said it, the more it became her own.

“Mademoiselle Sparrow?”

“Mhm?” she murmured, now tracing the letters onto her pillow with her finger.

“I have a new book for you.  Would you like it now?

Her hand dropped.  “For me?”

“Yes. We can call it a birthday gift.”

To his surprise, she shook her head.  “I actually think I’d quite like to rest.  Perhaps later tonight?”

Nodding, he rose from her bed.  “I look forward to it,” he told her as her turned to leave.

“Monsieur Sebastien!”  He turned around to see the girl rising from her bed.  “I... thank you.”

He simply nodded his head towards her.  Truly, she had nothing to thank him for.  “Happy birthday, Mademoiselle Sparrow.”

But upon returning to his room and seeing the book on his table, he decided that it was best to bring it to her - everyone deserved something for their birthday. True, he would have given it to her anyway, but he could not help himself from grabbing it and returning to her room.  He would knock and hand it to her silently.  She needn’t read it now, but she should at least have it in her possession. Another book to call her own.

But when he got to her room, the door was open and the girl was sitting once more on the windowsill.  But now, rather than crying, she was singing in that horribly off-tune voice and watching over Paris from above, like the bird she was.


	5. That Which Haunts Us Still

It was cold and lonely.  He stood alone in the large room, a room he knew, but could not place.  He should have been able to, though, for when he looked about the empty room, though there was nothing there but floor and walls, the only word that existed in his mind was “home.”  Mindlessly he wandered the room, pausing occasionally to stare out a window that he hadn’t originally noticed and look into nothingness.  Outside existed only darkness, something unreachable, yet this did not bother him. What was out there was soulless. It was only despair 

“ _Enjolras._ ”

With a gasp, he turned from the window, looking for the source of the whisper. It had been so long since he had heard his own name; it was almost as though he had lost it.  He circled the infinite – or was it finite? – room, but there was no one there to call his name.  He circled again, this time running his hand along the wall, looking for an alcove in which one might hide.  But there wasn’t even a door.

“ _Enjolras!_ ”  The call was clearer now – and more frantic.

“Combeferre!” he called into the emptiness.  But there was no response.  “Courfeyrac!”

“ _Enjolras._ ”  He sucked in his breath, feeling the hairs prick up along the back of his neck. This was not a voice he knew. It was soft and distant, high and slow, pronouncing each syllable as though it were its own word.

“ _Enjolrasssss_.”

_I should leave_.  He was certain of it.  This place wasn’t safe.  There wasn’t even a door.  Once more he spun around.  A lone chair stood next to the window.  He could have sworn it wasn’t there before, but that didn’t matter.

“ _Enjolras!_ ”

Before he could think of the voice any longer, he lifted the chair and, with all of his strength, forced it through the window.  With his hand, he pushed what glass that remained from the windowsill. The pain was hardly noticeable.

“ _Enjolras_!”

Pressing his hands over his ears, he squeezed his eyes shut and willed the world away. When he opened them again, he was outside the window.  But the abyss was not the blackness that he had expected, but rather a burning red. He shut his eyes again against the pain of it, aware of the blisters that consumed his flesh. 

“ _Enjolras._ ”

Unsure of what else to do, he ran.  Blind behind his eyelids he ran and ran and kept running.  He would escape.  He was sure of that.

“ _Sebastien_!”

“NO!” he roared. “Leave me!”

“ _Sebastien!_ ”  a chorus of voices sang in response.

There was a sudden explosion and he felt the familiar anguish of lead ripping through his body.  But this time, it didn’t stop.  There was no consciousness to be lost, no sweet death to be had.

_This is only a dream._

“Make it stop,” he wailed, letting his body crumble.  “Wake up!  Wake up!”

But he couldn’t and the bullets kept coming.

“ _Sebastien!_ ”

“Wake up!” he demanded of himself, approaching hysterics more with each passing moment.  “Wake up!  Wake up!”

“ _Sebastien!_ ”  And though he tried to rise, a force pushed him back down.  “ _Sebastien!_ ”

He was openly sobbing now, sobbing so hard he forgot what it meant to breathe. “Wake, you bastard! WAKE!”

“Sebastien!” the voice cried desperately.  “Sebastien, open your eyes!”

And, gasping through his sobs, he obeyed.  A rush of cold air hit his face, interrupted only by the warmth of a hand upon his cheek.  With a final choked sob, he let himself fall forward until he was wrapped in a tight embrace.

“You’re awake now,” Sparrow whispered, running her fingers through his hair. “You’re safe.”

Shaking, he allowed himself to stay as he was, grounded by the steadying beat of her heart, working almost as a template, as a model for his own.

“It was a dream, Sebastien,” she whispered against the top of his head and he couldn’t help but feel as though she had repeated this very action thousands of times before.

Finally, when the rise and fall of his chest matched hers, when his shaking had subsided, he pulled back. 

Blinking in the darkness, he took her in.  Despite the lack of light creeping through his curtains, Sparrow sat fully dressed before him, the darkness of the her dress, her hair, and the world emphasizing the pallor of her face. 

“You’re dressed,” was the first thing he managed to say.  “What time is it?”

“Only five,” the girl muttered and, from the light of the candle she must have brought in, he could see a tinge of pink creep into her cheeks.

“What cause do you have to blush, little bird?  I don’t recall you waking in the night like a spoiled child,” he said before he could stop himself.

Sparrow shrugged, glancing towards the curtained window.  “I woke up and it was snowing.  I guess I forgot what we are, though.  I wanted so badly to go out and see the snow. So I dressed.  But in the hall, I heard you.  At first I thought you were angry with me for going without you.  But then you were scared.  So I remembered.”

Sebastien took in a shaking breath.  For reasons he couldn’t explain, it always scared him to remember she was a child. Standing to retrieve the blanket and pillow he must have thrown to the floor, he muttered, “You ought to go back to sleep.”

Though he had his back to her, he was sure he heard her shrug.  “I can talk, if you’d like,” Sparrow said. “Or just sit here and wake you if you get scared again.  No one should be scared so long.”

“Sparrow,” he warned, unwilling to deal with the pending conflict of her desire for constant companionship and his own desire for equally constant solitude.

“What?”

“Go back to bed. Your bed.”

“Why? I’d rather sit here. I can move to the chair.”

He sighed, sitting back beside her.

“Are you embarrassed, Sebastien?  Surely you’ve seen me at my worst.”

“Because I don’t want you in here, Sparrow.”

Immediately she stood, but he reached for her wrist and caught her.

“That was cruel and I’m sorry.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” she responded in a tight voice.  “You’re entitled to your own time.”

“Sparrow.”

With a sigh, she sat back down, though he could not help but notice how cautiously she had placed herself on the edge of the bed.  “Why don’t you talk to me?”

He laughed and stood.  Retrieving his dressing gown from the back of his chair, he put it on and returned to his previous spot next to her.  “What do you mean?  I’m always talking to you.”

“Only words. I know nothing of what is in your mind.”

“Nor should you want to.”

Sparrow shook her head.  “I don’t need to. Want to know, I mean. You should tell me regardless.”

“That makes no sense, little bird.”

She sighed. “You scared me, Sebastien.”

“And I’m sorry for that.  But you should have been sleeping, not wandering the halls.”  He squeezed her arm.  “Go back to sleep, Sparrow, before the sun rises and you come back here complaining about how it’s too light to sleep.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Probably not,” he told her honestly.

“Don’t you want me around?”  And he was surprised by the smallness of her voice.  But, oddly, he couldn’t help but laugh.  It was such a child’s question.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” she whispered.

“And I’m not trying to mock you.”

Sucking in and pulling her shoulders back, Sparrow got up to leave and Sebastien was sure he heard a soft sniffle.

“Sparrow,” he called softly, standing to grab her.  At his touch, she tensed, but did not pull away.  “I think perhaps there was more than just snow keeping you from sleep.  I think that maybe you were sleeping just as poorly as I was.”

Head held high, she turned to face him.  “I think you regret it,” she said in a single breath, her shoulders folding forward as she stared up at him with wide eyes, both eyebrows rising in the center, tears threatening to spill out of her eyes.

“Regret what?” he asked, hoping his voice reached her as soft and caring as he intended it to.  Apparently he succeeded, for, though she turned her face from him and he could see the tears dripping off her nose, her body did not turn away.

“I think you regret promising to take me with you.  I think you think this is a mistake.  That I’m a mistake.  Because how could you not?”  Her entire body began to shake, overcome by all of her fear, all of her grief. Even in the darkness, Sebastien could see the redness consuming her face and stood there, one hand still on her wrist, the other hanging lamely at his side, unsure (as always) of how to comfort her.  Instead, he just watched the way her face contorted in horror at what had become of her life.  Of what had become of her.

Hysteric, she continued,  “I didn’t used to be this person, I swear.  I didn’t used to cry, I didn’t used to need people.  I didn’t used to be this silly, stupid little girl and if I were you, I’d have tired of me.  I’d leave me here to rot.  And I don’t blame you.  I wouldn’t have minded, really.  But you didn’t have to lie to me.  I know how things are!  I don’t deserve kindness or companionship.  That’s why everyone gets taken away from me.  That’s why everyone leaves.  Because I’m wicked and stupid and a mistake.”

“Hey!” Holding both her wrists, he led her to his chair and, once she sat, knelt before her.  “Look at me, Sparrow.  Hey!  You’re not silly and you’re not stupid.  You’ve gone through more in seventeen years than most women – than most people go through in seventy.  If half of what you’ve told me is true, you have no one.  No!  I’m sorry. I only mean…You’re like me, Sparrow. You’ve got to need me because I’m all you have.  That’s why you’re coming with me.  Not a mistake. We’re friends now, yes? So we’ve got to stick together.”

To his relief, her sobs had subsided with each word he spoke.  He had before witnessed what happened when nothing could comfort her and wished to never return to that position again.

“I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m just very used to being a mistake.”

“Whoever told you you’re a mistake?”

“I just am. Everything I do, everything I say. It’s always a mistake. Even dying I couldn’t do right.” Sighing, she stood and moved from the chair back to the foot of his bed, where she sat and immediately allowed herself to fall backwards.  “Someone told me once that God doesn’t make mistakes.”

Sebastien allowed himself to give her a small smile as he sat down beside her. “Then perhaps you’re not a mistake after all.”

Sparrow laughed, but it lacked all warmth.  It was low and cold and far more sinister a sound than any that should come from a seventeen year old.  “No, monsieur Sebastien.  It’s only that God is dead.”

Sebastien sighed.  No matter what he told the girl, no matter how he tried to befriend her, she could not trust him, not with this. She would laugh with him, make him trust her.  But when he tried to reassure her of her own salvation, she would never believe him.  “Sparrow,” he said softly, “you are not a mistake.  And even if you remain so horrendously stubborn that you believe you are, you are not a bad one.”

She snorted at that.  “That’s the meaning of mistake.  Something that shouldn’t have happened.  Something bad.”

Shutting his eyes, Sebastien inhaled deeply through his nose.  “Have you heard of Lilith?”

Sparrow sat up and pouted. “Now’s not the time to remind me how smart you think you are.”

He ignored her jibe.

“God thought she was a mistake.”

“And now no one knows of her.  See? Mistakes are things that we tried to hide, as if they never happened.”

“Don’t interrupt, Sparrow, just listen.  Lilith was Adam’s wife before Eve.  But she didn’t want to submit to her husband.  She, in her own eyes, was his equal.  But God didn’t like that.  So He banished her from Eden and from Earth. He declared her to be His mistake. But she wasn’t bad, she just knew she had her own mind and was capable of her own free thought.”

Sparrow sniffled out a little laugh.  “I thought that you said us girls couldn’t think.”

Sebastien merely shrugged.  “’With the exception of a small class of very enlightened men, there is complete equality between women and all other men…both sexes have an equal share of inferior and superior minds.’ Anyway, just because one isn’t political doesn’t mean that he – or she – lacks personal will and thought. So, you see, Sparrow, mistakes, like Lilith, aren’t all bad.  Even when God makes them.”

Sparrow rolled her eyes.  “Your Lilith lived a long time ago.  She might have been God’s ‘good’ mistake, but your God is dead.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m as good as. What’s the point of being alive if the whole world thinks you’re dead?  If you’re always alone?  See – another mistake.”

“So am I a mistake as well?”

The girl’s cheeks were quick to blush.  “I’m sorry. You know that’s not what I meant. I just don’t know what I did that was so good that I could deserve to live.  Or what I did so horrible that I have to live alone.” She stood and went to the window, drawing back the curtains and staring out at the snow drifting down from whatever lay above.  

Quietly, Sebastien followed her and placed a hand on her shoulder.  For, though both may be lonely, neither was alone.

* * *

 Marius Pontmercy was laughing – a great big laugh from deep within his belly that warmed his wife against the December chill.  She herself laughed as Marius received a small handful of snow in his face, courtesy of a cackling Remi.  Off to the side, having tired of a “baby’s game” a few minutes prior, Christophe sat in the little bit of snow, sketching little stick figures into the powder with his fingers.  In the setting sun, the world was golden and Cosette was happy. 

“Fifteen minutes!” she called to her husband, noting the sun’s height in the sky. His response was to blow her an overly dramatic kiss, before allowing Remi to “tackle” him to the ground. Laughing, she stood and moved to sit where Christophe crouched beneath a large tree. 

“What are you drawing, petit?” she asked, sitting next to the tree.

The boy shrugged.  “A family.”

Cosette examined the figures.  The three smallest figures were, based on their lack of skirts, boys and surrounding them were two slightly taller figures, one taller than the other, both in skirts. Only the two smallest of the boys had faces.  Blowing on her hands for warmth, she asked, “Is this your family?  The one before me?”

Christophe shrugged again, silently lengthening the tallest girl’s hair.

“Why do only the littlest two have faces?” she tried again.

For a moment, Christophe froze as though he had caught doing something naughty, but before Cosette could pull him to her, he wiped his hand over the image and it vanished. “I don’t remember. It was stupid.”

Cosette pouted. “You’ve been in a sour mood these last few days, petit.  Do you want to tall me what’s wrong?”

“I just don’t like snow.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s sad.”

“Why?”

Christophe looked up at her, crossing his little arms over his little chest. “Why don’t big people know anything?”

Cosette leaned back against the tree and thought for a moment, smiling to herself when Christophe moved to huddle against her in the cold.  “I think,” she began slowly, “that when we get big, we forget everything we learned as children.  The important stuff, anyway.  That’s why so many grownups have kids.  They make us remember the important things.”

Christophe nodded against her, seeming to fully accept her answer.  “I’m a lot smarter than a lot of big people. Like Uncle Marius. Not as smart as you, Auntie, but definitely smarter than my uncle.  A lot smarter.”

Cosette chuckled and squeezed him tight.  “Why is that?”

“Because Remi’s winning their game!”  Both laughed at that.

Cosette pressed a kiss into the boy’s hair and, after making eye contact with her husband, blew him a kiss and nodded her head.  With a comical roar, Marius spun around and scooped Remi into his arms. 

“Come, Christophe,” he called.  “Help the old lady stand!”

“See?” Christophe whispered to his aunt, “he must be very stupid if he thinks you’re an old lady.”

Cosette laughed and allowed Christophe to help her up.  “Well, you might very well be smarter than your uncle, but guess what?”

“What?”

“I think he’s a faster runner.”

Christophe raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together.  “I don’t think so.”

“No, I think he is.  Remi!” she called, reaching out to take the younger boy from her husband.  You’re going to walk with me, my love, and we are going to gamble like men.”

“I am a men,” he said, overly confident in his grammatical skills, and wiggled until Cosette set him down.  The boy had celebrated his fifth birthday shortly after being taken in by the Pontmercys and, since then, had insisted upon being treated like an adult (when, of course, it suited him).

Marius let out another deep-belly laugh.  “And what, if I may ask, are you gambling on?”

Christophe answered by tugging on Marius’s hand.  “Auntie thinks you’re faster than me.”

Marius raised his eyebrows at his wife.  “Oh, does she?” he asked, and Cosette smiled at his thinly veiled panic.

“She does,” she teased.  “So we’re going to settle the matter.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I think Chris might be faster.”

Cosette shrugged.  “Be careful of ice and snow.  One…two…three!”

Christophe took off and, with a final annoyed glance at this wife, Marius followed. Singing a little ditty Remi had learned from a little girl down the street, Cosette and Remi merrily made their way home.  As she rounded the final corner, Cosette was surprised to see Marius and Christophe standing at the front gate, her husband in deep conversation with a tall man in a worn coat.  Neither seemed to notice the arrival of the young woman and the small boy.  At least, not until the latter shouted, “Chris! Chris, did you win?!” and ran towards his brother.

“Mind the ice, petit!” his aunt cried after him, but it was too late. Still laughing, the boy tumbled to the ground and, a moment later, let out the type of wail that only a small child can emit.  In an instant, his aunt and uncle were at his side, as was, to Cosette’s surprise, the stranger.

“Oh, darling!” she cooed, pulling the crying boy onto her lap.  “Hush, hush!  You’re alright, I’m here.”

“Cosette.”

She glanced at her husband, who was calmly stroking Remi’s hair.  Catching his wife’s eye, he raised an eyebrow and glance quickly at the stranger.  “I’ve got the boys, Cosette.  Why don’t you take our guest inside?”

“Oh, but I’ve got him,” she replied, smiling at both Marius and the stranger, while hugging the boy tighter to her bosom.  Despite bearing no blood relation with the boys, Cosette had known from the moment she had met them that they were hers to love and care for. No mother, woman or animal, could rival Cosette’s affection and protectiveness of the little Magnon boys.

“Cosette,” Marius repeated, and only now did Cosette catch her husband’s solemn tone. Despite her confusion, Cosette, placed a soft kiss where Marius’s hand rested in the child’s hair and, passing the boy over, stood to greet the stranger.

“I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting in the cold, monsieur.  Please, come with me.  Christophe, sweetheart, go help your uncle and brother.”

“You’re…you’re Madame la Baronne Pontmercy?”  And, to Cosette’s surprise, his eyes showed nothing but the deepest respect. She smiled as she led him into the sitting room.

“It’s a silly title, really.  But yes, I’m Cosette. Please, sit, monsieur…?”

“Palomer,” he said quickly.  “Alain Palomer.”

“Monsieur Palomer, please.”  She held out her hand until he sat and then sat herself across from him.  “I don’t think we’ve met, monsieur. Are you an acquaintance of my husband?”

Palomer shook his head.  “It was you I was looking for, actually, Madame la baronne.  I…I was told you might be able to help me find someone.”

“Oh? Well, I’m not sure how. I grew up in a convent, you see. I have few acquaintances separate from Marius.” 

“I understand, Madame.  I hate to bother you, but I am desperate clinging to this hope.”

Cosette nodded. “Of course.  I shall do whatever I can to help.”

“I thank you. You see, when I was a very small boy, my father died.  I have no memory of him.  I’m the youngest of seven children, you see, so life was very hard.  My mother and her younger brother cared for us until my uncle was arrested.”

At this point in his story, Alain Palomer looked down at his lap, ashamed of discussing a crime of any sort with such a fine woman.  Had he kept his eyes on his hostess, however, he may have noticed the way her eyes had widened and the way she had begun to lean forward in her seat.  Instead, he focused his attention on his lap and continued:

“We were starving and my uncle broke a window to steal us some bread.  That was all.  But they arrested him.  Nineteen years he spent in prison.  And I’ve been seeking him out since my mother’s death year before last.  And someone told me you may know of him.”

He was silenced by a trembling hand upon his knee.  He glanced up at the baronne’s face, shocked to find her kneeling before him. Her eyes were red and wide and her cheeks were wet with tears.  He couldn’t bring himself to move.

“He’s your uncle?  Jean Valjean is your uncle?”

Alain froze, years of hope boiling over inside.  “Yes, yes!  You know him? Do you know where I can find him?”

Cosette bowed her head, clutching the man’s hands in her own, doing all she could to remained composed – or, rather, as composed as a baronne can be kneeling on the ground before a stranger.  Breathing deeply, she nodded and silently thanked her guest for his patient silence as she searched for the right thing to say.  This man before her was no stranger, he was her cousin. But she was not the man he searched for.  That man was dead. He was too late. She knelt before him in silence for several minutes, barely hearing the door open as Marius and the boys came in. She was only vaguely aware of her husband telling the boys in a hushed voice to make themselves scarce and only just noticed him move to stand in the doorway.

_Why, he knew!_ Cosette suddenly realized. That was why her had been so insistent on Cosette herself leading the man into the house.  He must have told Marius immediately who he was looking for.  From within her heart, she thanked him for allowing her this moment, knowing that her thanks would reach his own.

Finally, in a shaking voice, she spoke.  “I am sorry,” she began softly.  “My father passed on this past summer.”

Alain stared in silence, his eyes wide as he took in the woman before him. Cosette remained as she was, doing what she could to attempt to place his reaction.  Was his surprise angry?  Or was it instead joyful?  She could not know.  After several moments of silence, her husband spoke from beside them, holding a glass out to the other man.

“Please,” he said, “drink.”

Alain blinked twice before extracting his hands from Cosette’s and accepting the drink. “Thank you,” he said in a surprisingly clear voice before turning back to the woman who still knelt before him. “You…um.  I didn’t know he had a daughter.

And then he smiled.

Cosette smiled back through her tears and allowed Marius to help her to rise and sit beside her new cousin on the couch.  “He adopted me.  Nine years ago. Almost to the day. He’s the only father I’ve ever known.”

She was interrupted by the entrance of the young boys into the room.  Marius rose, ready to take the boys back to their own room, but Cosette calmly raised her hand, allowing Remi to squeeze himself between his aunt and uncle.

“I’m hungry,” he whined tugging on Cosette’s sleeve.  But then he let out a little gasp and reached up to touch his aunt’s cheek.  “Please don’t be sad,” he said and threw his arms around her as small children do; confident that the same comfort that aids them will always work on their elders.

“I’m not sad, petit,” Cosette replied, her voice quite steady as she hugged the boy back. “I’m very happy. Very, very happy. I…” she paused to look up at her cousin, who still sat in surprise next to her.  “Please stay for dinner.  I…”

She trailed off. There was so much she wanted to say.  She had never before had a family beyond her father and then Marius and now the two small boys. True, they had Marius’s grandfather, who loved her, and his aunt, who did not.  Never had she had brothers nor sisters nor cousins. It had always just been her.

But now, to her deepest pleasure, Alain Palomer, her cousin, nodded and said, “I’d be delighted.”

And so it was decided.  Marius led the party into the dining room, informing the rest that Grandfather was at dinner with an old friend and the Aunt Gillenormand had elected to dine in private that evening, claiming a dreadful headache.  The five sat in silence, saying grace and eating perhaps the happiest meal any of them (that is to say, any of the elder three) had consumed in a long time. When they spoke, it was merrily and of trivial subjects.

As the last dishes were cleared away, Cosette grinned to her cousin and asked of his accommodations.

“My eldest brother is here in Paris.  A priest across the city.  I’ve been staying with him.”

Marius chuckled at that.  “See, my love? It seems as though you’ve been destined to always be from a pious family.”

Cosette smiled first at Marius and then at Alain.  “We lived in a convent for several years, my father and I,” she explained. “Petit-Picpus. I went to school there, Father worked as a gardener.”

Alain nodded and smiled, albeit, with the slightest tinge of sadness.  “Can you tell me about him?” he asked. “I never knew him, he was taken before I can remember.”

Cosette smiled, her lips parted slightly, as she pondered the infinity of words to describe her father.  He loved her and that was as best as she could put it.  For the entirety of their life together, he put her first, both her needs and desires.  And he didn’t leave her.  He was not the other man who had left her mother alone with a small child.  He kept her safe.  He was all the goodness in the world wrapped into one man. There were no words to articulate all that the man had meant to her.  Fortunately, to save her from trying to sum up her world in a word, Marius spoke, his voice choked in mournful admiration:

“He was a man who loved a world that seemed to hate him.  His loyalty and devotion to those in his life can be rivaled by no other human, living or dead.  He took in Cosette and loved her until she became his own simply because he told her mother he would.  He risked his life to save my own because he could not bear to see Cosette sad. And he loved me still when I showed no appreciation for his sacrifice.  He was a saint if there ever was one.  And he never forgot his past – he never forgot the life he came from.”

“He was the first person to ever love me,” Cosette interjected, finally finding her own voice. Before continuing, she glanced across the table to where the boys sat quietly, whispering to one another and distracted in the peace of their own game.  Content with the knowledge she could speak freely, she went on: “I mean, my mother loved me, but I can’t remember her.  I didn’t know what it meant to be loved before he came for me. The family I lived with while my mother was away…I still dream of them sometimes.  Of all the horror and misery and pain and I feel like I’m drowning until I remember that Christmas morning when my father took me away forever.” She laughed and it almost masked her sniffling.  Though she looked only at the far wall, she could feel not only her cousin’s eyes on her, but her husband’s as well.  While Marius knew that her life before Jean Valjean had been a rough one, she had never revealed the extent of her hardships.  Even when her father had given her his final letter, the story of her mother, the martyr, Cosette had kept it to herself.  It was not that she distrusted Marius, not that she thought he would love her any less.  But she needed this to be her own for a while, she needed to process her own history and discover her own self. 

Alain continued to smile sympathetically at Cosette.  “Nine years ago,” he said.  “Nine years ago, that would have been when he was using the alias Madeleine.”  His smiled widened at the surprise on the young couple’s faces.  “I’ve been searching for my uncle for a long time,” he explained. “I’ve done my research. How, um, how did you come into his care?”

Cosette bowed her head and answered softly, “My mother had worked in his factory. She lost her job and…got sick. My father felt responsible for her.  So when she died, he promised to keep me safe.  And when he found me in Montfermeil, well, I wasn’t safe there.  So he took me away.”

“Montfermeil?” Marius asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

His wife nodded. “I lived there from before I was three until I was eight and my father came for me.  Five years, I was worse than a slave.” She laughed and silently thanked both of her companions for not acknowledging the stream of tears dripping down her cheeks.  Smiling through her tears, she glanced briefly at the still distracted boys.  “I was their age.  Younger.  It was my entire childhood.  I…I think I’d like very much to find them one day.  I don’t know how they are, but it doesn’t matter.  I don’t want to…I don’t want to show off my happiness. It’s not spite. I just…I want them to know they never ended me.  That I was still able to live.”

For a moment, neither man knew what to say.  Marius simply stared at her, his own eyes holding back the tears of hurt and the tears of pure admiration.  Alain, however, took a sip of his wine and said, “What was their name? I am good at finding people.”

Cosette laughed at that.  “You are, aren’t you?” She sighed, “Their name was Thenardier. I don’t know their given names. At least, not the parents. They were just Madame and Monsieur.  Imagine that – five years and I never knew their names.  Only their daughters.  Why, they had a little boy a few years before I left and he never even had a name of his – why, Marius, darling!  Are you unwell?”  For her husband sat across from her, staring at the table, his face void of all color. “Marius?”

“Two daughters, yes?  Two daughters your own age and a little boy perhaps five or six years younger?”

“Well, yes,” Cosette said, confused.  “I just said so, didn’t I?  The boy was nearly three when I left.  The oldest girl was my age.  I think maybe a month younger.  And her sister only a year younger than she was.”

Marius then murmured something she couldn’t understand.

Cosette shook her head and looked back and forth between her husband and Alain. “Marius, I’m afraid you’re confusing me.”

“I thought she was much younger,” Marius repeated, his voice still barely above a whisper. “Azelma, no?  She seemed much younger.”

Cosette’s lips parted slightly as she stared at her husband in shock.  She never spoke of her life before her father. She never mentioned Thenardier or Madame, never Eponine or Azelma or even the unnamed baby boy. Not once.  She dropped her eyes to her lap, staring at the way her fingers trembled.  Taking a shaking breath, she looked back to her husband and, without a single word, asked him how he knew.

“My father fought at Waterloo,” Marius said quietly.  “He would have died, but a man saved him.  Well, Father thought he had saved him. Turns out, the man had only wanted to rob him.  But my father never knew that.  All he knew was an innkeeper named Thenardier saved his life and he forever owed that man and his family. I found out, by chance, that they were the very family who lived next to me at the Gorbeau tenement. A man, his wife, and two girls.”

“What of the boy?” Cosette asked before she could stop herself.  Those last few years in Montfermeil, that little boy, a child so small and abused that he scarcely could talk, had been her only friend.  They had bonded, or at least Cosette had thought they had, over the hatred Madame Thenardier had both for her ward and her only son. He had been a child, but he had been all she had.  “He’d be about twelve years old now.  Still a child.”

Marius lips trembled.  “I knew him, too. He didn’t live with his family. I didn’t even know he was theirs. He just…he liked to hang around my friends. He fancied himself a revolutionary.  And, I think, he gave us all some hope, something to fight for that was solid, more that an idea.  He was a child living alone on the streets.  We could tell ourselves that he, of all of us, would benefit from a revolution.”

“You fought in the revolution?”  Alain asked, growing more curious about his cousin and her husband with every passing second.

“Rebellion,” Marius murmured.  “Revolutions are only the ones that succeed.”

“Where are they?”  Cosette demanded suddenly, unwilling to let the conversation stray any further from her past. “Please,” she continued, softening her voice.  “Please, Marius. I need to see them.”

Marius shook his head.  “Is it not enough to know that they didn’t break you?  That all they wished for you fell instead upon them?”

“For Madame, yes!  Even that man himself. But Eponine and Azelma and their brother…Marius, we were only children.  They were victims of their parents, only differently than I was. Without me there to bear their mother’s hatred, only God knows the horrors they must have felt. Please, Marius. They were only little girls. Eponine wasn’t even three when I started there.  Azelma not yet two years old.  They don’t deserve such misery.  Please, just tell me.”

Marius nodded shakily, taken aback by the desperation in his wife’s voice. “Thenardier’s no longer in France. America, I believe. With Azelma.”

“And Madame?”

“I believe she died in prison.”

Cosette nodded, her lips pressed firmly together, almost too frightened to ask anything further.  “Did the boy ever get a name?”

Marius nodded again, but averted his eyes.  “He called himself Gavroche.  Smartest kid I’ve ever known – not so different from Chris,” he said with a glance over at their own boys, still occupied in their own talk, blissfully ignorant of the growing tension at the table.  He squeezed his eyes shut and was almost able to hear the singing of that lost little boy.  He could barely choke out the following words.  “He came to the barricade.  A pistol and everything; he wanted to help change the world.  When we ran out of bullets, he…he went out among the bodies, took it upon himself to find more.  Oh, God!”  He slammed his hand on the table and immediately brought it up to cover his face. Alain and Cosette stared at him silently, all three adults unaware that the two little boys had looked up from their talk, scared of their beloved uncle’s sudden emotional outburst. “He never stopped singing, Cosette.  He sang the entire time.”

When he looked up, though Cosette’s head was held high, her eyes were shut tight and he could see the tears dripping off the tip of her nose. 

“And Eponine?” she whispered, doing all she could to keep her voice steady.

Marius let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh,  “She loved me.  Or at least she thought she did.  She, um, she loved me so much that she helped me find the beautiful, mysterious girl who had come giving alms.  I had been searching for her, you see.  My Ursule.  So ‘Ponine helped me find her.  And then…and then I went to the barricade.  And there was a soldier with a gun at me.  But this hand, this little hand came out of nowhere and pulled it away.”

He was cut off by a choked sob from his wife, who had clasped both hands over her mouth. For several minutes, that was the only sound in the room.  When she stopped, she stared at her husband with red eyes and whispered, “What happened next?”

“I held her,” Marius told her.  “I held her close and promised to kiss her head when she was sleeping.  So I held her in my arms until she slept.”

“Did you kiss her?”  Cosette’s voice, though soft, was completely void of all emotion.

Slowly, Marius nodded.  “She died for me. She took a bullet meant for me and all she asked was for me to kiss her forehead when she died. She was…she was such a miserable creature, Cosette.  I don’t think she ever knew what it meant to be happy.  So I kissed her.  I let her die loved.”

“Good,” was Cosette’s only response.

For several minutes, no one spoke.  Alain sat with his head bowed, wondering if he was stranger enough to ignore the proceeding conversation or family enough to offer words of comfort to his cousin. The two boys sat in a curious silence, glancing back and forth between their aunt – who they believe to be unhappy for the first time in their life – and their uncle – who had apparently kissed and loved someone who was not their aunt.  It was Christophe, at last, who spoke, choosing to preoccupy himself with the stranger seated beside his aunt.

“Are you staying here forever?”

“Not here. In Paris, perhaps. My brother is a priest in the city.”

“What are you?”

“I used to be a teacher.”

“Can you teach me?  I look at my uncle’s books sometimes, but I don’t know the words.  Remi knows even less.”

Marius blinked twice before speaking.  “Those are big books, petit.  _I_ don’t even know half the words.”

But before anyone else could so much as laugh, a wine glass flew across the table, staining the cloth red, before crashing against the wall.

“You should have told me,” Cosette hissed.

“Cosette-“

“YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME!” she shrieked, standing up with such force the whole table shook. Remi began to cry.

As though choreographed, Marius ran around the table to his wife as Alain moved to the terrified children, holding them close and ushering them out of the room.

“Cosette,” Marius, whispered, reaching for her arm.  “Cosette, I didn’t know.”

She slapped his hand away.  “Don’t touch me!” And then, with a horrible wail, she sunk down to the ground.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Shaking, Marius knelt down beside her and wrapped her tightly in his arms.  “ _I’m_ sorry, Cosette.  I’m so, so sorry.”

Cosette circled her arms around him and pressed her face against his chest. “Why did they have to die? Why does everybody have to die?”

And, in that moment, Cosette was not the noble and stoic Baronne Pontmercy. She was not the woman who tried to carry the world safely in the palm of her hand.  She was a child, not yet eighteen years old. She was a girl who had said goodbye to her mother at three, who at eight learned that that goodbye was forever. She was the girl who’s father had died not six months before, the girl who’s only companion in childhood, however harsh their relationship was, had died scared in her own husband’s arms.

And so Marius had no answer for his wife.  All he had was the warmth of his embrace and the opportunity, for the first time, to support the impossibly strong woman who had always held him up. For now, all he could do was pray that that would be enough.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair.

“I know.” And, after a moment of sitting there, allowing each other to pretend that they were the entire world, they stood and, drying their faces, went into the sitting room to join the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotation from Enjolras is from Condorcet's "On the emancipation of women. On giving women the right of citizenship." It's a pretty awesome essay, I highly recommend it.


	6. A Bird's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks again to all who've read!

When Cosette Pontmercy said her first goodbye to her cousin, Alain Palomer, it was with the promise that the following week would contain a dinner for their family, including Alain’s priest brother.  And as soon as the door shut had shut behind him, she forgot. She forgot what it meant to live, she forgot what it meant to die.  She sat herself down on the floor before the fire and watched the flames grow and expire and grow again.  She allowed herself the momentary bliss of ignoring the world around her.

True, she was vaguely aware of her husband’s attempts to distract the boys, the occasional call of “Let her be, petit.”  But none of it was of any consequence to Cosette.  She scarcely moved as each of the boys kissed her cheek and bid her goodnight.  The only world was that which existed in her fireplace.  The flames grew lower and lower.  The room had grown dim when she became aware of her own name.

“Cosette,” Marius whispered into her ear.  She couldn’t remember him sitting down behind her.  “Cosette, come to bed.  It’s late.”

Cosette swallowed and turned around quickly.  “Is it?”

“It’s half past eleven, darling.”

Immediately, Cosette stood.  “I have to put the boys to bed!” she exclaimed, her eyes sweeping the room for any sign of the children.

Marius, too, stood and grabbed his wife’s hands, rubbing them slowly with his thumbs. “Cosette, Cosette, darling, I’ve taken care of it.  Don’t worry. They’ve been asleep more than an hour.”

Cosette shook her head, seemingly confused.  “You should have told me.  I’ve put them to bed every night.”

Marius shut his eyes and willed himself not to cry.  It was his turn to be the strong one.  “Cosette,” he said softly.  “Cosette, come here.”  Holding her hands, he pulled her close and, after securing her arms around his waist, wrapped her tightly in his own.  “You don’t have to do all of this on your own, my love.”  He pressed a kiss into her hair.  “I’m here. I’m here and I will always be right here.  I won’t go anywhere. I love you, you know. I love you with all that I am and I will always be here.”

Shaking, Cosette nodded into his chest and forced herself to breathe until her heartbeat matched his.

“Everyone I know dies,” she whispered, still shaking as his hand brushed through her hair. “Everybody.  And one day I shall be completely alone.”

“Hey,” Marius said, removing his hand from her hair and grasping her chin, tilting her face up until her eyes met his.  “You will never be alone.  Never.”

He held her until her close until her shaking stopped.  He kissed her until her fingers folded themselves into his waistcoat, until she forgot everything except him.  Her heart raced and his followed and, even once they broke apart, they continued to clutch each other until the fire had almost gone completely.

Eventually, their hands never separating, they made their way up the stairs and into their room. Wordlessly, they prepared for bed and, when they lay down beside each other, both facing in, it was as equals.  Marius was as much Cosette’s rock as she was his.  They belonged fully and completely to each other and, as each was the other, to themselves.  And, like that, breathing in their shared togetherness, Marius drifted off to sleep.

But Cosette could not, for in her mind, all she could think was of her husband’s words.

_I held her in my arms until she slept_.

She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed as hard and as deeply as she could.  “Until she slept…” It made it sound tolerable, blissful even.  To drift off to sleep in the arms of someone you cared for.  But it wasn’t, was it?  No, it was slow and, Cosette was sure, painful.  Eponine, a girl Cosette’s own age, a girl who was the closest thing to a sister Cosette had ever known, had died and died slowly.

The world around her shrunk and the air flew from her lungs.  “Marius!” she wanted to cry, but how could she? Even in the dim light of the moon, she could recognize the bliss etched upon her husband’s face. So, quietly as she could, Cosette extracted herself from the bed and slipped into her dressing gown. With a final glance at Marius, she left. 

There, alone in the dark hallway, she could breathe again.  For several minutes she stood there, leaning against the wall and allowing herself to live only in her sorrows. When she could stand still no longer, she began to pace through the hall, wondering what sort of God, a God she had always fully relied on, would take such young people from the world.

Her thoughts were interrupted, however, by a soft cry coming through a door. Immediately, she pushed open the door and sat softly upon Christophe’s bed, opening her arms to him. Without hesitation, the boy flung himself to her, burying his face in her chest.

“I’m here, petit. Don’t worry, you’re all right. Everything’s all right. It was only a dream. Just a dream.” 

She rubbed his hair and continued to repeat soothing words until his sobs subsided. Across the room, his brother slept peacefully.

“Did I wake you, auntie?” The boy finally asked.

Cosette kissed the top of his head.  “Not at all, darling.  I was just coming by to check on you and heard someone.”

“Oh.”

Still holding Christophe, Cosette moved herself so that she was leaning against the headboard, the small boy curled against her.  “Are you going to tell me what it was?”

“My old family.”

Cosette simply continued stroke the boy’s hair.  She knew next to nothing of the boys’ mother or of the life they led with her.  Did he cry for missing her, she wondered, or did he cry at the thought of going back? “You know,” she said after a while, “Christmas is coming soon.”

“Really soon.”

“Yes, and you’ve been such a wonderful boy!  You and Remi both.   You should tell me what you want and I shall make sure Father Christmas knows.”

“Father Christmas isn’t real, auntie!”

Cosette gasped and held Christophe away so she could look at him properly. “Oh, don’t say such things! I’ll never believe it!”

Christophe crossed his arms with the confidence of a seven year old.  “He isn’t.  I know.”

“How?”

“He’s never come before, not in a long time.  Not since I was littler than Remi.”

Cosette bit her lip and held him close.  With each conversation she had with the boy, she grew more and more afraid that his past was not so different from her own.  “Well,” she finally said, “I think that was just a mistake, I’m sure that you will get exactly what you want this year!”

Christophe sighed and shook his head.  “No,” he whispered, so as not to wake his brother.  “I don’t really want anything anyway.”

“Nothing?”

“Remi wants a peach.  He had one before Maman left.  It was messy.”

Cosette stifled her laugh, keeping her eyes on the sleeping boy across the room. “Well, he might have to wait a bit for that, they won’t be in season now.”

“Oh,” was all Christophe said.

Cosette bent her head down so as to look at the boy in her lap and found, to her surprise, that his face was coated in tears once more.  “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered.  “It’s all fine.  We’ll get you both something lovely.  Father Christmas won’t forget this year.”

Squeezing him to her, she began singing softly, an old ditty that she could still vividly remember for her childhood.  When she closed her eyes, she could still hear Madame singing through the door until her daughters fell asleep.  She could still feel the wood pressing splinters into her hands as she tried to sing the very song to the poor baby boy.

And though the song broke her heart, she did not cry.  She sat there, determined to comfort her little boy. To her surprise, however, Christophe froze not more than five seconds into the song and, after sitting motionless and tearless for half a minute more, he turned in her lap and, pressing his hand to her cheek, whispered, “Auntie, do you know her?”

Cosette turned her face slightly to kiss the child’s hand.  “Know who, petit?”

“My Nina.”

Cosette shook her head.  “I don’t think so. I’ve never met a Nina.”

“Oh.” And then, “She used to sing that to me and Remi.  He had lots of bad dreams and our old Maman was always sleeping.  So Nina would sing to us.”

“Your old maman?”

Christophe nodded.  “But that’s a secret. I’m not supposed to tell. Remi’s lucky.  He’s just a baby, so he doesn’t remember.”

“Remember what?” Cosette ran her thumb over the boy’s cheek, her heart racing.

“It’s a secret, Auntie.  I’m not allowed to tell.”

“Says who?”

“Maman.”

“Old maman?”

“Both.”

“Christophe?”

“Yes, Auntie?” And his soft and trembling voice made her forget to breathe.

“You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?  Even when other people say it’s a secret?  I take care of you, don’t I?  Me and Uncle Marius.  All we want in the world is to help you be happy.  So if you want to tell me anything _ever_ , you always can and you will never, _ever_ get in trouble.  Never.”

For a minute, Christophe was silent.  He twisted in Cosette’s lap and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “We used to have a different maman. A great big family. Back when I was littler than Remi. I don’t really remember.”

Cosette nodded slowly, rubbing small circles into the boy’s back.  “And this…this was before your maman that left.”

Again, Christophe nodded against her.  “One day, old Maman said we were getting a new maman.  Nina cried a lot.  She kept screaming at old Maman until the man told her to leave.”

It took all of her strength to keep her voice and demeanor calm as she struggled to find out more about the boy’s peculiar past.  “Was…was Nina an auntie?  Was she a sister?”

Christophe shrugged and whimpered, “I don’t know.  I just remember that she sang to us and kept us safe.  It helped Remi sleep and made me laugh – she had a very funny voice when she was singing.”  He fell silent, nuzzling closer to Cosette and yawning. “She loved me like you do.” Suddenly he gasped and moved his head to look her in the eye.  “Do you think Father Christmas could bring her to me for Christmas?” Immediately, he blushed and looked away.  “I don’t want to leave, Auntie.  Not ever. I just want to see my Nina. Just for a minute.”

Cosette bit her lip and ran the back of her hand across Christophe’s cheek, willing herself not to cry.  When the boys had come into her care, they were simply the illegitimate sons of her husband’s grandfather, two little boys whose mother had abandoned them.  But now she wondered who they were. They were her precious boys and she would love them always.  But with each word Christophe spoke, it became increasingly clear that Magnon’s departure was not the first time a mother had abandoned these sweet boys.

“Could you ask?” Christophe whispered. “Could you ask Father Christmas to help me find my Nina?”

“I can try.”

Christophe shook his head.  “Trying just means no.”

“Hey!” Cosette held the boy’s face so that he was forced to look at her.  “I will ask Father Christmas.  I promise. But people are hard to find, my love.  I will ask him and I will help him look, but I cannot promise you I can find her.”

“That’s what I thought,” Christophe whispered with a sigh.  “I’m sleepy, Auntie.  I think I need to go back to sleep.”

“Of course!” So she stood and watched as the boy laid himself back down.  “I love you, sweetheart,” she said, pulling the blankets up to his chin. “Your uncle and I, we love you both.  So very, very much.”

But Christophe said nothing.  He simply turned on his side, putting his back to his aunt.  With tears in her eyes, Cosette turned to leave to leave the room.

“Auntie!” Her fingers rested lightly on the doorknob. 

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I’ll see you in the morning.  You can help me and Remi make a snowman.”

Cosette smiled in the darkness, nodding.  “That sounds lovely.  I look forward to it.”  Opening the door, she turned to see Christophe turned to face her, his body looking smaller than his seven years beneath the warmth of all his blankets.  “Sleep well, petit.”

“Goodnight, Auntie.”

“Goodnight, love.”  Shutting the door behind her, she walked back to her own room.  Marius was as fast asleep as he had been when she had left. She smiled, content with the bliss that always conquered her husband in his sleep.  Slipping into bed, she pressed herself against him, calmed by the way his arm naturally moved to encircle her and to pull her into the peace that was their presence.

* * *

 It was five days before Christmas and Musichetta could scarcely feel her fingers. Or perhaps she could feel them too much.  In the weeks leading up to the holiday, she had insisted on working longer hours in the dress shop. She told grand-mere that it was to help her enhance her character.  In reality, she just wanted to be out of the house.  But the workday had ended and Musichetta was walking home, hugging herself against the cold.  _I should call on Cosette this week_ , she thought as she walked.  The baronne had come into her shop the day before, looking as though she hadn’t slept in several life times.  She had claimed to be returning a book she had borrowed, but Musichetta was sure there was something more.  Even Jehan had confided in her his worry over their friend’s odd state.

_Yes_ , Musichetta concluded, blinking a piece of snow off her eyelashes. _I’ll call on her Saturday._   She made a mental note to go and find a Christmas treat for the boys the next day. By the time she arrived outside her home, she had concluded that she’d buy a nice book for Christophe and perhaps some drawing pencils for Remi.  Yes, they’d like that very much.  With a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

“Grand-mere!” She called.  “I’m home!”

“In here,” came the old woman’s voice from the parlor.  “Won’t you join me?”

Musichetta sighed, but finished taking off her boots and went into the parlor. The old lady was sitting in her chair, facing the fire.  Her face, as it often was, was void of all emotion.

“Good evening, Grand-mere,” she said cautiously, sitting in the next chair and pulling her stockings off her feet.  “There must be a hole in my boot, Grand-mere.  I’m frozen to the bone.”  She forced a laugh.

To her surprise, her grandmother smiled, her fingers stroking a piece of paper in her lap. “Well, we’ll have to deal with that, won’t we, Musichetta, dear?”

And, at once, Musichetta knew something was horribly wrong.  To use both her given name and a pet name in a single sentence was unheard of from the old lady and most certainly a horrible sign. “Is it Maman?” She asked before she could stop herself.

“I’m sorry?”

“Is my mother…is she well?”

The old lady pursed her lips.  “That will be up to you, Musichetta.”  With a sigh, she unfolded the paper on her lap.  “I’ve been worried about you, young lady.  I’m sure you’re aware of that.  Unfortunately as you are named, you are still, of course, my granddaughter.”

“I – I know this, Grand-mere.”

“You’ve been terribly morose since summer and I won’t stand for it.”

“I’m sorry, Grand-mere.”

“You’re not, Musichetta.  You’re not sorry at all.  But now, at least, you will be honest.”  And then she began to read from the paper in her hand:

_My dearest Musichetta,_

_There aren’t words to describe how much I grieve both for you and with you.  I wish I could be now in Paris, to stand by your side rather than have to know of your misery and know just as well that there is nothing I can do to comfort you.  I can do nothing but send you all of my fondest friendship and dearest affection. It is a terrible tragedy that you have suffered, but I implore you to never forget that you are not alone. I will always be here, mourning as you do.  Should you ever want it, you are always welcomed to come to stay with my father and myself. But I must beg you, my darling Chetta, do not let your grief consume you.  You have been loved and you will always be loved. They fought for a better world and we should not let ourselves fall into one of misery in their absence. It was a blessing to be loved as you were and, I assure you, as you still are.  Please be happy, my dearest friend, lest their death be for naught._

_May God have mercy upon them and bless those of us who remain._

_My deepest love, sympathy, and affection,_

_S.A._

Musichetta swallowed.  The fire was surely burning too strong and the house was growing too warm.

“Tell me, child,” she could hear her grandmother saying.  “Were you too overwhelmed by those foolish boys here in the city?”

Musichetta remained silent, scared of what would happen should she open her mouth.

“Truly foolish boys,” her grandmother continued.  “Utterly idiotic.  Honestly, I’m of the opinion that they got what was coming for them.”

“Don’t,” Musichetta whispered before to old lady could continue.  “Please, please, just don’t.”

“So, you knew them, then.  These silly boys who thought they knew better than the government.”  It was clear that her words were not a question. “How did they get to you, girl? Did they buy you fancy things in exchange for your company?  Or are you just enough of a harlot that you followed them for their pretty faces alone?”

Musichetta covered her mouth with her hands, tears pouring down her face.  This couldn’t be happening.  Not tonight, not ever.  “It wasn’t like that,” she choked out, jumping to her feet. “It wasn’t, Grand-mere, I swear it!”

“Sit down, girl,” her grandmother said in a low, cool drawl.  Musichetta obeyed.  “Whatever you say.  Perhaps it wasn’t.  Perhaps I’m misjudging you.  Still, people talk and you insult my intelligence.  But you’ll admit, I presume, that you let yourself be seduced by some…idiotic rebel?”

Musichetta said nothing.  The pocket of her skirt had a loose hem, she busied herself with that.  Slowly and silently, she picked at the loose thread, rubbing it gently between her fingers.  She was sure she could just fix it tomorrow at work.  Yes, the shop was never short of green thread. All would be well tomorrow.

“Musichetta!”

She looked up with wide eyes, as though she had forgotten the conversation completely.

“There is no point in denying what I know, Musichetta.  I’ve already written your mother to make arrangements for you to leave Paris by the New Year.”

In an instant, Musichetta was out of her seat.  She threw herself down at her grandmother’s feet, knocking aside her cane and clutching at her skirt.  “Please.  Please, Grand-mere, you can’t make me leave.  Oh, please!  You can’t!”

“Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do.”

Musichetta lifted her head and pressed her hands to her chest, staring up at her grandmother with shamelessly desperate eyes.  “Please, Grand-mere.  This is my home.  I…what shall I say to the Baron and Cosette?”

She swallowed, hoping that her grandmother’s obsession with titles, however meaningless they were, would take pity on her granddaughter.  The old lady sucked in, her chest rising and her head held erect, her sternness forcing Musichetta to lower her eyes.  “You shall tell them that you are a foolish little girl who associated with the rebels.  And you shall apologize for the shame you have brought upon them with your association.”

For a moment, Musichetta was silent.  Then, so very slowly, she raised her eyes to meet her grandmother’s.  And she laughed.  She laughed so hard her entire body shook.  She laughed at the ridiculous nature of her grandmother’s comment.  She laughed at the very idea that she was laughing in such a situation.  She laughed because it had been held up inside her since that fateful June day.  She did not stop until her grandmother’s hand hit her hard and fast across the face.

“Insolent girl! Has the Devil possessed you?”

But Musichetta did not avert her gaze.  “I only find it funny,” she said, surprised by the steadiness of her voice, “because that is how I know the baron.  Marius was at the barricade.  Marius was _shot_ fighting at the barricade.”

Again there was silence.  After a minute, the old lady grabbed her cane and rose, leaving Musichetta kneeling on the floor. “Give me a name,” she said, her voice cold and low.

Musichetta stared at her.  “What?”

“I have written your mother saying you are no longer welcomed here.  The reasoning I have thus far left up to you. If you wish it to remain that way, girl, I want the name of the traitorous fool you whored yourself to.”

In that moment, Musichetta ceased to breathe.  To acknowledge her sins would be one thing.  She could live knowing that the world knew she had been loved. But to say a name? To pick one love to be her only forever?  That she could not do. She had been loved, so very, very loved.  She didn’t even realize she was sobbing until her grandmother slammed her cane on the floor with such force that Musichetta trembled all the more.

“What is it? Can you not say? Does the slut finally find her modesty?  He is dead, girl, it matters not to him.”

Musichetta leaned forward, clutching the old lady’s skirt.  “Why?”

“Because,” her grandmother said in an eerily calm tone.  “I deserve the name of the man who destroyed my family.”

Musichetta shut her eyes and willed the tears away.  Dry-eyed, she stood, holding her head high and praying that the old lady understood she was not afraid.  Her life was hers and hers alone.  She would rewrite it for no one.  She had been loved and she would not be ashamed of that.

“Vincent Joly,” she said softly.  “Valere Lesgles. Joly was a student of medicine. And a hypochondriac. Lesgles studied law. His friends called him Bossuet, but he was always my Valere.  _They.  Loved.  Me._ I’d have married both if I could –“

She was cut off by the force of the old lady’s cane at her side.

“ _Out_.  Get out.”

“You asked me for a name, I gave you two.”

“Insatiable harlot!  Of my own blood!”

“Where do you want me to go?”  Musichetta asked, her voice shockingly level as she clutched at her side. 

“Rot in prison or in hell.”

“For what crime? Being loved?”

“They did not love you, you dimwitted slut!”

“Grand-mere!” And, like that, her calmness vanished. The eyes that had helped raised her now looked at her with such disgust and loathing, she could scarcely breathe. True, the old woman had never shown much love for her granddaughter, but she had been her granddaughter nonetheless.  Slowly, she raised her hands, as if this motion of surrender could protect her.

But her grandmother’s eyes narrowed even further as she spat, “A common whore is no granddaughter of mine.  Now get out. I’m sure your _talents_ will feed you.  But do not come here for money or food.  You shall not receive it.  I pray that one of us dies before I must lay eyes upon you again.  I’m indifferent as to whom.”

“Grand-mere!”

“You are no granddaughter of mine.  My granddaughter is dead and you are not her.  Now leave my house or I shall send for the police!”

She couldn’t remember leaving the house, but next thing she knew, she was standing on the street.  She must have left quickly though, for she had not even bothered to put back on her stockings, much less her boots.  It was laughable, her situation, and she reacted accordingly, for to acknowledge the end of the life she knew would kill her.  So she stood there, out barefoot in the snow, and laughed.  _Grand-mere knows. And soon Maman and Papa will know. They will hate me. And I will not care. I was loved._ She thought back to the letter her grandmother had only just read aloud.  _I am loved_ , she concluded and realized that, at some point, her laughter had turned back to sobs.

“How long have you been here?”

For some reason, she found herself unsurprised to hear Jehan behind her.  And even less surprised to find that she was standing outside of his new building.

“Quite some time, I think.”  The hoarseness of her voice, however, surprised her.

“Rough night?”

She nodded.

“’Chetta?”

_If you truly think about it, snow is no different than sand._

“’Chetta!”

“I’m listening.”

“You have no shoes!”

“No. I suppose I haven’t, have I?”

“Musichetta,” he said, his voice soft as he reached for her shoulder.  “Musichetta, look at me and tell me what’s wrong.”

She turned her head, grinning at him for a reason she couldn’t explain.  “I told her.  My _grandmother_.”

Jehan held her upper arm, looking at her with wide eyes.  “Musichetta!  Are you drunk?”

She shook her head, ignoring the tears dripping down her face.  “Unfortunately, no.  Ill, perhaps.  My feet are so cold.”

“Come, then. Let’s get you inside.”

She didn’t move.

“’Chetta,” Jehan repeated, his voice full of concern that Musichetta could not hear. “’Chetta, what did you tell her?”

Musichetta’s tearful smile fell as her eyebrows rose in confusion.  “Everything.”

Jehan said nothing.  He simply slipped off his own coat and wrapped her tightly in it before ushering her into his building and up into his apartment.  “Sit,” he demanded, guiding her to a chair that looked far softer than it was. She obeyed.  Giving her shoulder a soft squeeze, he walked to his dresser and pulled out a pair of wool socks.

“Oh, ‘Chetta,” he whispered, kneeling down before her.  But her eyes were focused on the fireplace.  With a sigh, he took her foot in his hands and rubbed it lightly before slipping his sock onto it.  “Why on earth would you do that?”

“They loved me so much, Jehan.  I know they did.”  She smiled sadly and looked down at her friend.  “I couldn’t…it would disgrace their memories to deny them.  They were mine, Jehan, and I was theirs. I’m not ashamed of that.”

Jehan held her hand as she extended it to him and allowed her to slip down off the chair so that she was sitting beside him.

“Oh, ‘Chetta,” he murmured again.  “What did she say?”

“She…she called me a common whore.  She hit me, Jehan. With her cane. And then she kicked me out. She didn’t even let me put my shoes back on.  Oh, my god!” At once, she burst into tears and leaned into Jehan’s arms.  “What am I to do?  Where am I to go?”

Jehan held her close, rubbing small circles into her back.  “She kicked you out?  Without anything?”

Musichetta nodded against him.  “She said, in not so many words, that I can just _whore_ myself out.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jehan sighed and placed a figure under her chin, raising her head to look at him.  “It’s not all lost, ‘Chetta.  I’m still here.  And Cosette and Marius.  And you’ve still got your job at the dress shop.  You’ll get by.”

Musichetta let out a hollow laugh.  “That’s nowhere near enough to pay rent.”

“Stay here, then,” he responded simply.  “I sleep odd hours – I’m not fond of sleeping during the night, so you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

Again, the woman laughed, just as coldly.  “By morning, you can be sure that my…that she will see that all of Parisian society knows of my shame.  I won’t bring you into that.”

At this, Jehan smiled and let out a true and proper laugh.  “I hate to tell you this, ‘Chetta, but that bitch is hardly Parisian society.”

“Jehan!”

“Does it shock you that I call her ‘bitch’ or that I acknowledge that she is not as high as she thinks she is?”

Finally, Musichetta properly smiled.  “To be honest – only that you have a rude thought in your mind at all. Still, Jehan, she knows enough people. I could never impose on you, force the burden of my reputation upon you.”

Jehan sighed. “You are stubborn, aren’t you?”

“A mule.”

He laughed and stood.  “Wine?” he offered.

Musichetta shook her head.

“Whiskey?” he tried.

She sat still for a moment, but then nodded.  A minute later, Jehan was back beside her.

“You know,” he began, handing her the glass and watching her bring it to her lips. “You could just marry me.”

He at once received a mouthful of whiskey in his face.  Beside him, Musichetta sat staring unapologetically.

“Marry!” She exclaimed. “ _You?_ ”

“You needn’t act so shocked,” he laughed.  “I’m not such a horrid match.”

“I have no desire to marry you, Jehan.”

“Why? You’re homeless. You have a horrible job and, likely, a worse reputation.  And yet you want to stay in Paris.  Am I wrong?”

“No, but-“

“And you won’t settle for simply sharing the apartment.”

“I don’t love you, Jean.  I couldn’t marry you any more than I could Marius.”

“Nonsense! I’m not married to your only friend.”

“Cosette isn’t my only friend!”

“Aside from Marius and myself, she is, but that’s beside the point.”

“Jehan, you are dear to me beyond words.  But I do not love you and never shall.  I’ve had my chance.  I loved very, very much, but that’s it for me.  I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone, not as I did them.”

Jehan simply smiled.  “That’s all very well.  I don’t love you and, though I can make no promises, likely never shall.”

“Then why?”

Jehan shrugged. “Because I’ve loved and lost and don’t think I’ll ever love again.”

“That’s not a why, Jehan.  That’s my why not repeated back to me.”

“Because it’s not a reason not to marry me.  If we’re both going to be horribly miserable forever and never have the intention of marrying for love, why not at least try to be happy?”

“And if you fall in love with another?”

“I won’t. And if you do, we’ll go away somewhere so I can grant you a divorce.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?  You are my friend, my dearest friend.  I won’t let you live on the streets and you don’t want to give me a reputation. Marriage would solve all of that. And I’d _still_ sleep at odd hours.  It would be no different than you living here.  Just with a little slip of paper saying you’re Madame Prouvaire.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Quite.”

“Have you been planning this?”

Jehan laughed. “Not at all.  It just seems…logical now.”  He suddenly turned away from her.  When he spoke again, his voice sounded far heavier than it did before.  “I went to the Musain today.”

“Oh,” was Musichetta’s soft response.

“I am very certain that I won’t love again.”

Musichetta put a hand on his shoulder.  “I understand,” she said.

Jehan turned to kiss her hand.  “I know you do. More than anyone.”

After that, the pair sat in silence for a long while.  When the clock struck eleven, Jehan insisted that Musichetta take his bed.  He had some writing he needed to do anyway.  When the clock struck one, Musichetta turned.  Jehan was still sitting at his desk, pen in hand. But the paper before him appeared wordless.

“Jehan?”

He jumped. “You’re still awake?”

“Musichetta Prouvaire does not sound so horrible.”

The poet smiled. “Between us, we may even be able to continue to afford this apartment.”

Musichetta laughed, propping herself up upon her elbow.  “I do have a condition: you mustn’t say a word to Marius and Cosette!”

In the candlelight, Jehan’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.  “Oh?”

“No, I should like to see who realizes we’re married first.”

“Consider it a wedding gift.”

Musichetta laughed again.  “Jehan?”

“Mhm?”

“You may use the bed.  But if you lay so much as a lay a finger upon me, I _will_ castrate you.”

Laughing, Jehan shook his head and quietly returned to his writing.

* * *

Were a bird to fly into that dark little room, it would perhaps mistake the creature in there for one of its own kind.  Curled up in a single corner of the bed for warmth, the girl called Sparrow slept peacefully, her arms out to her sides, the corners of her blanket clutched in each hand, giving the illusion, perhaps, that she herself had wings. As she tried to escape the darkness that was her own mind, her slender arms beat mercilessly at the bed, up and down, back and forth.

But the girl was a girl.  She was no bird. No movement of her arms could fly her away from herself.

It was half past two on the morning of the twenty-second of December, 1832. The girl had been thrashing alone in her bed for a quarter of an hour.  But now, as the clock showed that in another half an hour, it would be three and, only a few hours after that, the sun would rise, the young man down the hall slipped into her room and climbed upon her bed.

“Sparrow,” Sebastien hissed, lightly shaking the girl until she woke.  “Sparrow, you need to wake up!”

With a gasp, the girl opened her eyes.  “’Bastien?”

But the moment her eyes had opened, he had left the bed and gone to retrieve the simple dress that lay over the back of her chair. 

“You must dress quickly, Sparrow,” he whispered, reaching out to pull the girl from the far corner of her bed.  “We’re leaving.”


	7. Wherever Flight May Lead Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! This is the most recent chapter, so now it's all up-to-date with what's been posted elsewhere.  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read!

She had been too tired to even ask questions. The moment Sebastien had left her room, leaving only a candle upon her table, Sparrow dressed. She was still lacing up her shoes when Sebastien re-entered without so much as knocking.  Silently, he opened the bag he was holding and unceremoniously stuffed into it the few books that lay upon her table.

“Are you almost ready?”

Sparrow nodded, tying the knot on her shoe. “I just need to get my other dress.  Is there room in your bag?”

Sebastien glanced down.  “Possibly.  Can you last in the same dress for…two, maybe three days?  We can get you a new one when we get there. It’s best to travel lightly.”

She stared at him for a moment.  In the back of her mind, she thought of asking where “there” was, but it was far too early.  Instead, she only glanced at where her nightgown lay folded upon the foot of her bed.

Sebastien nodded.  “Of course, I’ll take it now.”

Sparrow quickly grabbed it and handed it over for Sebastien to place into his bag. 

“I’d like to clear Paris before the sun is up,” he told her, extending his hand.

Wordlessly, Sparrow took it and allowed him to lead her through the church and, at long last, out into the cold air. Once on the street, the girl stopped in her tracks.  She let her head fall back as she stared up at the sky.  She had forgotten how many stars there were.

“Are you planning your flight?”

Sparrow only grinned.  After another moment of the utmost joy and peace, Sebastien tugged at her hand and, once again, began to lead her along.  For half an hour, Sparrow allowed him to lead the way through the streets.  In the shadows of her Paris, she felt as though she was finally home – for who needs four walls and a ceiling when you have a whole city?  “Will we ever return?” she considered asking. But what was the point? The little girl from Montfermeil was not the creature in the Parisian shadows and the young woman who roamed them now was neither.  So she remained silent until, turning a corner, she saw someone wave to her in the starlight.

“Monsieur Palomer!”

At once he held up a hand for her silence and she obeyed.  Quietly, she and Sebastien followed the man to a nearby alley, where a carriage stood waiting.

“This will take you out of the city,” Monsieur Palomer told Sebastien, shaking his hand.  “I’ve left a purse inside to take you onward.”

Sebastien nodded and, in her exhausted mind, Sparrow found pleasure in the roughness of her companion’s voice as he thanked Palomer and even more in the tears she saw upon his cheeks.  When Palomer held out his hand to Sparrow however, she immediately forgot to mock Sebastien’s emotions and stepped forward.

“Thank you, monsieur,” she whispered.

“Thank _you_ , little ghost,” he replied, drawing her close and kissing her cheek. “You are truly an angel of the Lord and have brought me more joy than you could ever know.”

At first, Sparrow only nodded.  But upon seeing Sebastien’s hand extend out to escort her into the carriage, she at once leaned forward and flung her arms around Palomer’s neck.  He tensed only for a moment before responding with his own tight embrace.

"Are they happy?" she breathed into his ear.

 "My cousin and her husband?" he whispered back, squeezing her tight. "Aye, when they can be. Do you know them well?"

 Sparrow sniffed and looked around, noting that Sebastien must have slipped into the carriage to afford her some privacy.  Still, she shook her head.  "Scarcely in passing.  I'm sure neither ever knew of my existence."  And pressing a final kiss to Palomer’s cheek, she allowed him to help her up into the carriage.  Nothing was said as Sebastien leaned over her to secure the door.  She watched as Palomer tipped his hat to the pair and, with an uncomfortable lurch, they were off.

It was Sebastien who broke the silence.

“You’ve never done this before.”

Sparrow swallowed dryly.  “I’ve started afresh more often than you have.”

Sebastien laughed.  “I don’t doubt it.  But never, I think, with wheels beneath you.”

“Not since I was a girl.  You don’t notice danger as much when you’re but a child.”

“It’s safe.”

“I know.”

Again, silence fell.  For over an hour, each stared out their own window, watching the world they knew grow small behind them.

“Sebastien?”  He remained silent but turned his head to face her.  “Why tonight?”

“Are you sad to be going?”

“More curious, truthfully.”

Sebastien nodded.  “Very well, then.  We left at night because we both have people, friends and enemies alike, we’d rather not see us.  You’ve said before that you have a sister.  What if she were strolling down the street and looked up, only to see you in the window?”

Sparrow turned away and said in a small voice, “My sister doesn’t live in France.  But I suppose that doesn’t matter much.  I understand.  Really. But why tonight, though? Why this night?” She spoke quickly, transferring the conversation to their night.  She could stay strong through leaving Paris, she knew she could. But she could not do it as the girl with a sister.  A new city – or town or wherever Sebastien saw fit to take her – meant being Sparrow. And Sparrow had no sister. Fortunately, Sebastien seemed to understand her and merely said:

“I thought it would be a Christmas gift. For us both.”

“I suppose it’s as good of a time as any.”

“I do apologize for the lack of warning.”

“All the better.  Goodbyes are best done quickly.  Now, tell me: where are we going?”

Sebastien nodded his head toward the front of the carriage and then again to his open window to the apparently empty streets. “We probably won’t stop before nightfall.”

“Then we have a long day before us. Won’t we stop somewhere to eat? I don’t think I should like to talk to you once you are hungry.”

Sebastien laughed.  “Monsieur Palomer has graciously provided us with a loaf of bread, more than enough cheese, and some apples.  I also have made sure that we have water.  I assure you, Sparrow, neither of us shall starve. You may help yourself.”

With a nod, Sparrow turned back to the window. Six months ago, she was sure she would have laughed had someone told her that, by Christmas, she’d be sharing all of her meals (and a carriage) with some snotty bourgeois boy. She’d have laughed harder at the idea that sharing the food would more than fill both of their stomachs. Even some five months before, she would have never imagined that she and her soldier-boy would still be alone together, hiding from the world.

“I’ve never had a friend before.”  It wasn’t until Sebastien took her right hand that she realized she had spoken aloud.  So she continued.  “I had one once, but he hates me now, so I don’t know if he was ever my friend to start with.  And then you…I expected something very different.”

“And,” Sebastien said slowly, “What was that?”

“Nothing.  He told me you were made of marble.”

“Your friend?”

Sparrow shook her head.  “No.  That one was kind to me, but he wasn’t my friend.  And I don’t think I was his.”

At first, Sebastien was very quiet and Sparrow followed suit, certain that her words had scared her companion. _Perhaps it is for the best_ , she thought.  _Perhaps when we stop for the night, I can find my way back to Paris._   And yet, despite his continued silence, Sebastien had not relinquished her hand.

“Am I your friend, Sparrow?” he asked after a long while.

Sparrow only shrugged and answered with, “Do you want to be?”

To her surprise, Sebastien squeezed her hand. “I think you are a very good and loyal friend.”

“Loyalty’s a fool’s game,” she said, turning to face him.

“Not if you pick the right players.” With that, he let go of her hand.

“You’re usually not so cryptic so early.”

At that, Sebastien smiled.  “I’m not trying to be cryptic.  I think that it is not for me to decide who you are loyal to.  I cannot demand your friendship.  I can only hope to earn it.”

Sparrow nodded and turned back to the window, using her fingers to draw upon the foggy glass.

“Sebastien?” she asked without looking at him.

“Yes?”

“You are my friend.”

“As you are mine.”

After that, the pair fell into a comfortable silence, each watching the world flying past them.

_This cannot be an easy task for him_ , Sparrow found herself thinking.  For, though she too found it difficult, leaving life was not an unknown act for her.  She could shed her name more easily that she could her clothes, her acquaintances meant no more than the weather and changed with just as much frequency and sentiment.  Even her family, it seemed, could be abandoned as though they were no more than a child’s doll set: dearly beloved in her youth, but now no more than a memory. But Sebastien, though she knew little of him – perhaps less than he knew of her – she knew enough to say with confidence that this was new to him.  Although she was certain that the revolutionary was not the bourgeois boy he was meant to be, she was sure that he had never abandoned his own name or his father’s.  He had always been one man and now that man was dead.  If she knew how, perhaps she would have comforted him. But she did not. And, it seemed, that would be all right for the present.  For at this moment, Sparrow observed, the not-so-marble man sat still as stone, looking out the window with his perpetually unreadable face.  So she let him be.  They rode in their silence for over an hour, breaking it only when, after a sudden lurch of the carriage caused by something in the road, Sparrow let out a surprised gasp and, stifling a laugh, Sebastien said, “It’s safe, Sparrow.  I promise.”

“I know,” she said nodding, though the paleness of her face betrayed her discomfort.  “That doesn’t mean I must enjoy it.”  She sighed.  “What time is it?”

Sebastien shrugged.  “Midmorning still.  I don’t suppose you have any interest in reading?”

“In this thing?” she exclaimed.  “I think I would die.  Or faint at the very least.”

Sebastien laughed.  “Then we’ll just have to wait for our journey’s end. I have a novel – a novella, rather – I think you would enjoy.”

“Oh?”  Sparrow crossed her arms over her chest.  From her childhood she knew only one thing of novels: they were silly things for silly women.  “Didn’t I tell you, monsieur Sebastien, I have as little interest in silly romances as you do.”

“This is different,” he said.  “It’s a commentary in the form of a story. You have been asking for Voltaire. This is my favorite work of his. It’s a criticism of optimism. I believe you would like much of what he was to say.”

Sparrow had the decency to blush for jumping so hastily to the conclusion that Sebastien was mocking her.  Bowing her head, she said, “Optimism, I think, is only for those who have never lived.”

With a smile, Sebastien bent forward and retrieved two apples from the bag at his feet.  “Well put,” he said, holding out his hand to give her one. “You ought to have been born a man.”

Sparrow’s lips parted slightly.  Wordlessly, she pushed the apple back into Sebastien’s hand and turned to the window, pulling up her feet and folding them beneath her skirt.  It had been so long, months perhaps, since Sebastien had seen it fit to compliment her by telling her that she was not what she was.  She had thought that he had perhaps learned from her, that he had learned that her existence was not a sign of her cosmic fate to be superior among women.

“Sparrow?”  She ignored him, so, placing his hand upon her shoulder, he tried again. “Sparrow, are you well?”

Sparrow said nothing.  She simply shrugged his hand off and hoped he would take the hint and leave her be.

“Sparrow, are you cross with me?”  He paused for her response, but she remained silent. “Why?”

Sparrow sighed.  “You insult me,” she muttered, still refusing to face him.

“On the contrary!  I gave you a compliment.”

At once, Sparrow spun around to face him and, had she not been so livid, she would have smiled at the way he recoiled and immediately pulled his hand away from her.

“What am I?” she snarled.

Sebastien’s face paled.  “I…what?” he stammered.

“ _What_ am I?”

“You’re Sparrow.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “And what is Sparrow?”

He tried to smile.  “A bird, I suppose.”

Again, Sparrow’s lips fell apart as she glanced around the carriage, as though its walls held an explanation for Sebastien’s words or, better yet, a response she could give him.  “Am I not a woman?” she asked.  “Are all women not me?”

Sebastien’s eyebrows rose in apparent confusion. “Therein lies my compliment!” he exclaimed.  “Indeed, you are a woman, but with your mind, you’re a lucky rarity within your sex.”

Sparrow’s eyes widened ever so slightly and, in a moment of absolute disgust for her only friend, she slapped him.

“How dare you presume to know anything of my sex!” she spat.  “What? Because your universities and your government are so filled with fat old men, you believe that we women are incapable of thinking just as you do?  Can you not process in that ridiculous head of yours that, from birth, your sex is taught to think and to rule the world while mine is taught – yes, taught! – to sit there idly and smile?  You may have been taught to read Condorcet and all your fancy philosophers, you may know the story of Lilith and all these biblical tales that I was never afforded the chance to learn, but do you at all understand what any of it means?  The only reason you think so little of my sex is because men like you refuse to teach us.  Our ignorance is not our own sin, but yours.  So, yes, monsieur Sebastien, I was lucky.  I had a papa who, though he was not a man so privileged to learn as yourself, still he taught me all he could.  The issue is not that women like me are rare in our sex, but that men like you are all too common in yours.”

With that, she turned her back to Sebastien once more. Thankfully for both, Sebastien too remained silent.  But this silence did not carry the friendly comfort that the past ones had. Instead, as Sparrow glared out the window, she felt smothered by the silence, as though she was obligated to repair the discomfort that had taken over.  But she was not, she reminded herself.  Sebastien had insulted her.  He was her only friend and yet refused to see what she was.  If he could not respect all of her, her womanhood included, how could she at all respect him? She couldn’t.  And, without respect, how could there be friendship? She bit her lip – she would not cry over such a loss.  _You are not worth my tears._ No, she would go with her earlier plan – she would remain calm and follow him to wherever he intended to pass the night.  And then, while he slept, she would leave.  She would return to Paris.  Surviving on her own would be difficult, no doubt, but it was certainly not impossible. Yes, in the darkness of the night, she would once more start fresh.  She would not be Sparrow nor anyone else.  She could survive in the shadows.  They were, of course, her only constant home.  The only constant anything.  Though they wavered in size and place, the safety of the shadows was never far.

The sun was low in the sky when she at last felt a hand upon her shoulder.  She was too tired to care.

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I haven’t been hungry.”

“A piece of bread,” he said, holding a small loaf up in his other hand.  “Please, mademoiselle.”

“What?  I thought you wanted me to sit here and try to look pretty. I fear I may have put on some weight these last few months.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I am sorry, Sparrow.”

“And I don’t care.”

“I know few women –“

“Do _not_ plead ignorance with me.”

“Please, Sparrow.  Only listen.  I only know two women closely, yourself included, my mother not.  Both of you defy everything I have been told of your sex.  Everything. And I apologize for my words and my actions.  Truly. I apologize from the bottom of my heart.”

“What heart?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Sparrow froze. Sebastien’s head cocked slightly to one side and, upon seeing that brief motion, Sparrow drew one arm across her chest and leaned back against the door, her other arm twisting behind her back until her hand found the handle.  But Sebastien made no further movement _._ He simply stared at her and, for the first time, Sparrow could read every emotion upon his face. Of all the hateful words she had uttered over the months, none had hurt him as these did.Her words shone as blood upon his face.  They had done more than provoke his anger towards her, they had provoked an anger, a hatred, towards Sebastien himself.  She had said the one thing that could break him the most, and he was not whole to begin with.  In all of her life, she had never seen a man look so purely sad.  There was no anger, no fury.  There was no throwing of books.  He did not raise his hand to her.  He called her neither “bitch” nor “whore.”  As she defied all he expected of women, he now defied all she had learned about men.  And, in that moment, Sparrow hated herself.  She was no better than he was, always expecting the worse from him, always assuming that he would grow to hate her as every other man did.

“Sebastien,” she whispered, her breath coming back to her as she reached forward, though she knew not why.  Perhaps, in a moment of childishness, she had hoped that she could take back her words with a hug, that she could repair all with a soft hand upon his cheek.  

But Sebastien only pressed the bread into her hand and her hand back to her chest.  “You should eat,” he told her softly.  And then it was he who turned away from her.

Sparrow sat still, staring at his back. “Sebastien,” she whispered. But he didn’t move. Clutching the piece of bread in her hand, she leaned back against the door of the carriage and shut her eyes tightly.  “I’m sorry,” she breathed.  “Forgive me.”

She did not eat the bread, she only clutched it to her breast, as if squeezing it hard enough would allow her to release all of the stress and anger from her body, her soul, and the heart she was beginning to doubt she possessed.  Perhaps the hatred men bore for her was well deserved.  Perhaps she had become the heartless bitch and unlovable whore she had always feared was her destiny.  Perhaps, she thought, she should not have tried so hard to survive.

She could not recall falling asleep nor what she had been dreaming of.  But when she next opened her eyes, the world had grown dark and Sebastien was standing outside her door, cupping her face in his hands and wiping away her tears with his thumbs.  “It’s okay,” he was whispering.  “I’m right here.” Gasping for breath, Sparrow leaned forward and buried her face in his neck.  He let her remain there, sobbing, for a minute before he whispered, “Come.”

Nodding, Sparrow untangled her legs and allowed Sebastien to help her out of the carriage.  After shaking the driver’s hand, he beckoned her to follow him into a rather old looking building.

“Wait here,” he commanded, walking to the desk across the room.  “I’ll be right back.”

Sparrow nodded before making her way over to where several chairs surrounded a fire.  She sat in the one closest to the window and watched as the snow fell down from the sky.  This inn was not so different from that of her childhood, not really.  At least, in the memories so glossed in the happiness of her youth, her home had been so warm and nice.  If she closed her eyes, she could still remember dancing by the fire with her sister, either to the music sung by one of their parents or to that which existed only in their minds. 

“What are you thinking of?” came Sebastien’s voice, his mouth peculiarly close to her ear.

“I was trying to remember happiness.”

To her surprise, Sebastien laughed and kissed her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper.  “For the sake of our funds, I have gotten us only one room.  For the sake of our respectability, I told the landlord that I am your husband.  I would have mentioned something before, but I didn’t want to wake you. I hope you don’t mind being Madame Me.  It will only be for a moment.”

Sparrow smiled a little and chuckled softly. “I suppose I could do much worse in life.”

Sebastien stepped around the chair so that he stood before and extended his hand to help her up.  “I suppose I am not the most heartless of all creatures,’ he said, wrapping his arm around her waist.

Before Sparrow could respond, he smiled and pulled her forward.  An elderly man stood at the foot of the stairs and Sebastien introduced her solely as “my wife.” They were led upstairs and shown a small room.  The moment the landlord had bid them goodnight and shut their door, Sebastien dropped his arm from the Sparrow’s waist and walked straight to the chair next to the window.

“You may sleep,” he told her plainly. “I should be content here.”

“Sebastien, please.”

“I have my books – I trust the candlelight won’t bother you.”  Then, turning to the window, he continued, “I won’t turn if you wish to change.”

“I’ve already slept.  I can sit up a bit if you’d –“

“We’ll be leaving early again tomorrow. It will be a long day. Goodnight.”

With that, he pulled a book from his bag before setting it on the floor.  Silently, Sparrow tip-toed over to where it lay and pulled out her nightgown. Quickly, she changed, but when she finished, she did not sleep.  She sat at the edge of the bed, her knees pulled tightly against her chest. She watched as Sebastien flipped through the pages of his book quickly at first, then more slowly, until he didn’t turn the page at all.  Were it not for the rhythm of his breath, she would have thought him to be asleep. 

He was right to be angry with her.  Deep down, she knew that.  Her distrust of men was not his fault. Just as his experience taught him that women were all silly little fools, hers taught her that all men would eventually stop caring, that no one would care when she hurt.

“I might have been married once,” she said before she could stop herself.  “There was this boy, you see, and he said he loved me.  And my papa loved him more than his own sons, so my sister always assumed that he and I would get married.”

Though Sebastien remained silent, she could see how his head had risen when she began to speak.

“I guess I did, too,” Sparrow continued. “I always thought we’d run away together.  It’s silly, I know, but he had always been there for me.  I was attacked as a girl, you see.  He saved me.”  She paused, wondering if Sebastien had anything to say.  If he did, though, he chose not to. “I think he tried to kill me,” she said calmly.  “The boy I might have married.  He wrapped his hands around my neck and I very much think he wished me dead. I had even heard him say to others that he’d kill me if he had to.  Worst part is, I don’t think papa would have minded all too much. Last time I saw him, I don’t think he really knew me.  He just called me ‘bitch’ and told me to leave.  Women are silly in your world, Sebastien.  But men kill women in mine.”  She clutched her nightgown in her hands in the hopes that the action would stop them from trembling.  Shutting her eyes, she continued, “I cannot excuse my words, Sebastien, but I can try to explain.  I don’t know if I was just angry or if there is a part of me that wants to provoke you, that wants to test you to make sure that you will not hurt me because I have been hurt by everyone I have ever known and I want to trust you and I want to be your friend, but every time I trust someone, I end up getting hurt.”

In the silence of the night, she could hear Sebastien close his book and place it upon the table, but after that there was no further sound.  When Sparrow opened her eyes, the candle was out and she felt as though she were alone in the room.  For though she knew within her that Sebastien had not left the chair, he gave no signs of life and, once again, she was abandoned. 

“If you can spare a franc or two,” she breathed, “I can make my way back to Paris come morning.  I’ll work the money back and send it to you, wherever you are.” With that, she crawled into bed and drew the covers up over her head, burying her face in the pillow and willing herself not to cry.  She felt, after all, she had brought her misfortune upon herself this time.

“I am angry, Sparrow,” came Sebastien’s voice suddenly, causing her to pull the blankets tighter around her.  “I am angry and I am hurt that you would say such a thing to me.  But I am also angry with myself to have ever given you cause to think me heartless, even if only for an instant.  Yet I have said before and shall say again: no harm will ever come to you at my hands. I know that words alone cannot win your trust, but you know that I will not hurt you.  Not ever.  You are my friend.  And it will take more than hurtful words to change that.  So we leave tomorrow at dawn together.  I have an uncle not far from Nancy. He has always been sympathetic to my causes and my…relationship with my parents.  I have faith that he may be able to assist us.”

After a brief moment of silence, Sparrow asked, “Do you think the cops are looking for us?”

Sebastien sighed.  “I don’t know.  Perhaps they have rounded up all those responsible – all those left. Or maybe they’re letting them live in peace.”

“M- your friend, the married one.  He’s not been arrested, surely.”

“Yes, I suppose Pontmercy must have some peace.”

“Then what are you running from?”

“What are you?”

Sparrow propped herself up on her elbows and stared towards where she knew Sebastien sat in the darkness.  “My name, I suppose.  And people who have wished that name dead.  But you knew that.”

“I suppose, yes.”

“So if it’s not coppers making you run, then whom?”

Sebastien was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was in that exhausted yet emotionless voice that crushed Sparrow’s heart from within. It frightened her and yet she was certain that, however he spoke, one of them would be frightened.

“Does it surprise you, Sparrow, that a man so heartless – no, you were not the first to tell me so – a man so void of feeling and warmth does not want to live in a world where his friends cannot? Just as you are running from your past, I am running to mine.  I shall never forget my friends, nor my role in their deaths.  But I cannot live what remains of my life being no more than the stature who led all of his friends to their deaths.”

“I don’t think your friends blame you for their deaths, Sebastien,” Sparrow whispered.  “I think they would want you to be happy.”

Sebastien let out a hollow laugh.  “Then I don’t suppose you knew my friends very well.”

“Perhaps not.  But I think you are a good man.  Really, I do.  And I must assume that your friends were good men as well; not the types to follow without free will.  You may have bound them together, Sebastien, but you did not force them to fight. They died for a cause, Sebastien. They did not die for a man and they most certainly did not die for a statue.”

“You are kind to say so.  But –“

“Also foolish?  No, I don’t think this is kindness or foolishness. I’m just frightfully clever.” She smiled when she heard Sebastien chuckle from his chair.

“Clever indeed,” he said.  “But it is late now.  You should sleep.”

“As should you.”

“Very well.  I shall wake you at dawn.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

But neither slept.  They both sat there, staring at the same sliver of moonshine that came in through the window.  They watched the way it reflected off the snow, twinkling like starlight. The hours passed and the light faded.  The white turned to the palest blue and then into gold before settling upon the grey of a winter morning.  Wordlessly, Sparrow slipped from the bed and changed back into her dress.  But even by the time she had laced her boots, Sebastien had neither spoken nor stirred.  Tying her hair back into a loose braid, she crept around his chair and looked down at his face, still staring out the window, oblivious to her motions.

“Sebastien,” she said softly so as not to startle him.

Calmly, he turned to face her and held out his hand. She accepted.

“I’m sorry for last night,” he said, and she could hear the sincerity in his voice.

“For what?”  She smiled meekly.  “I was far more cruel than you.”

Sebastien shook his head.  “Masculine ignorance cannot excuse my words. Forgive me?”

Sparrow squeezed his hand.  “Always.”

With a smile, Sebastien stood and returned both his book and Sparrow’s nightgown to their lone bag.  Replenishing their food and thanking the landlord, they continued on their way.  Despite their lack of sleep, there was no silence that day.  Though their talk began, as always, with philosophy, it rapidly dissolved into Sparrow singing the bawdiest songs she could remember, stopping only when Sebastien joined her and only then because she was laughing too hard to continue.  Almost immediately, Sebastien stopped as well.

“Why have you stopped?” she managed to choke out.

“You’re laughing.”

Sparrow shook her head.

“Of course, you are!  You’re laughing so terribly you can’t speak.”

But Sparrow shook her head again, raising a shaking hand as she tried to regain her breath.  “Only at content,” she wheezed.  “I promise!  Your voice is actually rather pleasant.”

“Well, better than yours, at the very least.”

She slapped him playfully before turning her attention to the window, looking out over the grey terrain.  “I miss the sun,” she said, sighing dramatically.

“It’s been a gloomy winter.”

“Will we be in Nancy through summer?”

“I hope so.”

“Do you know how to swim?”

Sebastien gave her a confused smile, cocking his head to the side.  “Where on Earth did that come from?”

Sparrow smiled and shrugged.  “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Is there water near your uncle?”  Sebastien nodded.  “The sea?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.  “Rivers and creeks and such.”

“Will you teach me?”

“To swim?”

Sparrow clasped her hands together at her breast. “Please?”

At once, Sebastien burst into laughter. “I think you’re half drunk with exhaustion, little bird.”

Sparrow pursed her lips and shook her head. “The only people who believe you can get drunk off being tired are those who have never been drunk.”

Sebastien let out another bark of laughter. “On the contrary. The only people who believe you can’t are drunks who sleep too much.”

“Have you ever even been drunk?”

“It’s not a sport I enjoy.”

Sparrow watched as Sebastien shifted in his seat, eyes downcast, before he shot her a quick smile (one she thought, perhaps, was meant to reassure her of something) and turned to face the window.

“May I ask you something?”

She saw his reflection blink twice before he turned back to her and smiled encouragingly.

“Was your father a drunkard?”  She bit her lip to avoiding adding “too.” But she was sure that he heard it, silent or not.

To her surprise, he shook his head. “My mother, actually.”

“I think my mother was too lazy to be a drunk. There was never a point to anything that required her to leave bed.”

“But your father?”

She shrugged.  “I didn’t mind it.  On the contrary, actually.  When he was drunk, he forgot to hate himself.  And I suppose if you love yourself, you must love all you create.”

Sebastien sighed and leaned back into his seat. “My mother’s the opposite. When she drank, she forgot she was supposed to pretend to care about, well, anything.  Myself included.”

“Well, I suppose you didn’t turn out too horribly.”

“I spent most of my summers as a child with my uncle. My father didn’t approve, but otherwise I became his responsibility, so…” he trailed off.

“The uncle we’re going to?”

Sebastien nodded.  “My father’s brother.  His elder brother.  Inherited everything from my grandfather.  It was quite the fortune and an impressive estate.  But he didn’t want it.  He took some of the money, of course, but my family’s from the Midi and, well, my uncle wanted to be further north.  He married a wealthy half-Scottish girl and that was that.  My father ended up with my grandfather’s house but, though he’d never admit it, prefers my uncle’s. I think he prefers his whole life, actually.  True, my mother is still alive, but my uncle’s six years of marriage contained far more happiness than my parents’ thirty.  And, when my uncle grows old, he will have a daughter to care for him. I think my father knows that I am long since gone.”

“Or dead,” Sparrow interjected before she could stop herself. 

But Sebastien only laughed.  “Or dead, yes.  Now,” he said, clapping his hands.  “You should probably sleep.”

“The sun’s still up.  I feel like a child being told to nap.”

“But we won’t stop until late tonight, perhaps around eleven.  Tomorrow, if we travel all day, we should make it by nightfall.  My uncle’s not the type to go to midnight mass.”

Sparrow nodded.  “Is Nancy so far?”

“From Paris?  Around two days if you don’t stop.  But we stopped for a few hours last night and, of course, a few times to switch horses.  And my uncle is further west than Nancy.  I promise, I will wake you when we find somewhere to pass the night.”

“Very well.  Promise me you’ll sleep too.  Just for a minute?”

“Of course.”

Sparrow smiled and, shutting her eyes, leaned back against the window.  But her efforts were futile.  In another day or so, she would start over as she had never started over before. She was following Sebastien into the past of his wealthy life.  She was being taken to the home of a man with money and a man who did not know her.  No matter how she wrangled her logic, the idea was a terrifying one. She was a poor girl from a poor family (and was sure Sebastien had not assumed otherwise).  She could still hear the whisper in her ear that one day a bourgeois boy would pay her to speak his name.  She shook with the fear of all she had ever been told of rich men.  _But it is Sebastien’s uncle_ , she told herself. If Sebastien trusted him then she should too.  But would he even like her?  Would his daughter? Or would she forever become the burden that Sebastien had placed upon them?

Trembling, she drew her knees to her chest. She watched Sebastien as he slept in his corner, truer to his word than she was.  She watched as villages she had never seen before and would never see again flew past her window.  She sat there, consumed in her thoughts, until Sebastien stirred in the dim glow of the moon.  She quickly shut her eyes and remained still, shifting her head only occasionally, until Sebastien placed a hand upon her arm.

“We’ll be stopping for the night shortly.”

“So soon?” she asked, though in truth she knew it had been several hours since they had last spoken.

Sebastien nodded.  “Did you sleep well?”

She simply smiled.  “Quite.”


	8. Christmas Eve, 1832

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on a later conversation in this chapter: Enjolras says some things about mental health and I feel like I should say again that these aren't my feelings. If Eponine lived today, she'd probably have some clinically diagnosed mental health issues. But Enjolras is an incredibly privileged boy living in 1832. He only sees behavior in two ways: normal and not normal. And that's not how mental health works. So though we may sit here angry with him for using terminology that we recognize today as being bad, understand that his beliefs are his as a character. They are not mine.

The girl on the floor let out an involuntary gasp as the comb caught suddenly in one of her curls, earning her a sound whack over the head from the elderly woman sitting on the chair behind her.

"Marguerite! That hurt." For her comment, the girl received another whack.

"What are you? A little girl who cries over each tangle?"

The girl turned and rested her cheek upon Marguerite's knee. "Oh, you know I've never cried over something so silly as a tangle in my whole life."

"Is that so?" came a man's voice from the doorway. "I remember a precocious little girl sobbing to me that she'd rather be bald than – oh, what was it? 'Than to have such a positively satanic monstrosity.' You thought the big words made you sound more reasonable."

The girl rolled her eyes. "I've always liked my hair, red or not."

"But the curls, those you could do without."

Sighing, the girl stood and moved to her bed, where she flopped down upon her stomach and opened the book upon her pillow. "What do you want, Papa?"

Her father chose to ignore her. "Marguerite, could you have some tea brought into the sitting room?"

Marguerite stood and walked to the foot of the bed. "It'll take more than tea to placate this one, Monsieur Mathieu," she said, pulling at the girl's bare toe before exiting.

"I take it you're not going to Mass tonight," Mathieu said as soon as the door shut.

"You never do."

"Simone."

In response to her father's warning tone, Simone simply raised her book to better cover her face.

"Simone, you're acting so sullen. It's unlike you."

"Is it so wrong to not smile for a moment?"

"When the moment is infinite and it breaks your dear father's heart, then yes. I don't like seeing you so miserable."

Simone lowered her book and smiled at her father. "Then perhaps it's best if I go to Paris in the spring."

"Mona, we've discussed this."

"Oh, please, Papa? I miss the city."

Her father shook his head. "Not after this summer."

"Yes, but it'll be calm in spring, I'm certain of it."

"Simone. Stop. You have no one I trust to house you there anyway." Clearing his throat, Mathieu turned to the door. "Put on a dressing gown, my dear, and come downstairs for tea."

"It's too late for tea."

"Tea at eleven or Mass at midnight. You may choose."

She made it to the sitting room not five minutes after her father.

"So," Mathieu began, pouring her a cup of tea. "My sullen girl, tell me you can think of something worth smiling for. Perhaps some gossip or something of the sort. It's been since May, I think, that you've shared anything properly scandalous with me."

For a moment, Simone attempted to keep her face emotionless. Her father had made a point. Since the news of Paris's June Rebellion, Simone, once full of wit and joy, had grown sullen, seldom so much as smiling. Though the occasional smirk had begun to slip through, the girl appeared to her father more eighty than eighteen. Each smile was now a rare blessing and, for Simone herself to say anything comical, it was a miracle. Before everything had changed, she would have shared a story with him for each outing she took, always filling him in on the latest gossip and scandals of her peers. Now, each time something crossed her mind as worth sharing, she kept it to herself, not even daring to write it down. It felt wrong to be happy. But now, upon seeing her father's face, seeing his complete and utter desperation to force her happiness, Simone could no longer help it and grinned.

"Apparently," she said, "I am both a prudish tease and a devilish harlot."

Mathieu laughed into his tea. "Is that so?"

Simone nodded, stirring an obscene amount of sugar into her own cup. "I'm a proper little Delilah, Isabelle says."

"What on Earth did you do this time?"

"Well, apparently I was engaged to her brother, Antoine - the tall one?"

"My congratulations. I only wish I had been told sooner."

"Well, that's what I said, you see. He had the gall to kiss me last Tuesday when I was at the hatters."

"The nerve. What did you do?"

"I'm scared to say, Papa."

"Don't tell me you've eloped."

Simone shook her head, cheeks pink with laughter. "I'm afraid I bit him."

"Simone Anaïs!" Mathieu exclaimed, though his face read more amusement than anger.

"Well, what should I have done, Papa? He surprised me!"

Mathieu's body shook with laughter. "Oh, my Mona," he said, rising from his chair to sit beside his daughter on the couch. "I've missed you, my darling girl."

Simone curled her legs up beneath her night gown and leaned upon her father's shoulder.

"Merry Christmas, Papa."

"Merry Christmas, pet."

They fell into a comfortable silence, Mathieu watching affectionately as Simone pulled straight random strands of hair, smiling slightly each time she let go as the hairs sprang back to their wreck of curls. There was something soothing to both about the repetition of her actions. Perhaps it was when she slowly extended her arm and brought it back to fall limply over her hip. Or perhaps it was how immediately her hair twisted back into place, however long she held it straight. They sat there in silence, neither acknowledging when the clock struck eleven-thirty. In fact, no sound was made until nearly midnight, when a forceful knock upon the front door stirred both from their thoughts. At once, Simone sat straight up, her dressing gown slipping from her shoulder, and looked at her father in confusion.

"We're not expecting anyone, are we?"

Mathieu shook his head, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. They listened carefully to the sound of Marguerite walking to the front door. After she opened it, there was a brief moment of silence before they heard her frantically running back through the house. Mathieu had only just stood when she came dashing into the room, her face void of all color despite her lack of breath.

"Monsieur Mathieu," she gasped out, clutching her chest.

"Wait here," he commanded of Simone before gesturing for Marguerite to lead him to the front door.

As soon as they left, Simone jumped up and raced to the sitting room door, hoping to hear something, anything, of their unexpected guest. Marguerite had looked so surprised – paler than death itself – when she had fetched her father. But as another minute passed without word from Mathieu, Simone clutched her dressing gown tightly around herself and ventured into the hallway. It could be neither a thief nor a murderer at the door, she decided, for Marguerite had been only startled – or at least appeared to be – when she had come in. Neither thief nor murderer, Simone reasoned, would have allowed her to retrieve Mathieu.

"Papa?" Simone whispered. There was only a sound akin to a gasp or sob in response. So, with a deep breath, she stepped around the final corner.

Her father stood in the doorway, his arms wrapped tightly around a tall, blond man, and, though his waves obscured his face, Simone at once recognized the figure.

"Sebastien," she breathed before sprinting forward. Immediately, her father stepped aside, allowing Simone to throw herself at full force into Sebastien's arms.

"You let me think you were dead," she hissed into his shoulder.

Sebastien said nothing. He simply clutched her close, rubbing slow circles into her back, as though that could make up for so many months of silence.

"You horrid shit," she muttered, pulling away and wiping her nose with her sleeve. "You've made me cry."

Sebastien tried to smile. "I suppose I'm something of a sorcerer, then."

"Oh, I could hit you right now!"

"But you won't."

"No, I don't suppose I will." With that, she threw her arms back around his neck.

"Mona, let him breathe," Mathieu said, putting an hand on his daughter's back. "Come in, please, please. It's too cold to be shy, my dear."

It was only then that Simone noticed the second slender figure. A small woman stood behind Sebastien, her eyes focused determinedly upon the floor. A messy braid of dark auburn hair fell over her shoulder and, though it obscured most of her face, Simone was certain that this girl couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Squeezing Sebastien's shoulder, Simone stepped forward and wrapped one arm around the girl, saying with a smile, "Please come inside. It's cold out there – you'll catch something horrible."

The girl glanced up at her with deceptively old eyes before turning to Sebastien, who immediately gestured for her to step inside.

"You can trust her, Sparrow," he said in a voice softer and kinder than Simone had ever heard him use. "We're safe now."

"Safe," she repeated, as though the concept were a foreign one.

He nodded and reached out to her. At once the girl abandoned Simone's embrace for Sebastien's.

"My cousin, Simone," he told her, pointing at each person in turn. "My uncle, Mathieu. And Marguerite – she practically raised Simone." He smiled, his arm draped comfortable over the girl's shoulders. "This is Sparrow." At her name, the girl called Sparrow flushed and looked back at the floor. Mathieu, however, grinned and held out both hands to her.

"Don't be shy, my dear. You are very welcomed here. Come, you must be starving."

Eyes wide, she turned her face up to Sebastien's.

"Go ahead," he told her. "I'll be right behind you."

Again, Mathieu held out his arm, but this time, after only a moment's hesitation, Sparrow took it at the elbow and allowed him to escort her into the house.

"Marguerite," he called over his shoulder. "Could you have something brought into the sitting room for our weary travelers?"

Following her father and Sparrow, Simone hooked her arm through her cousin's and leaned her head upon his shoulders.

"'Bastien," she smirked and she could almost hear her cousin's eyebrows rise in response.

"Mona?"

"Sparrow?"

"Ah. Well, I can tell you that she seldom shuts up – unless she's angry with me. This silence is disconcerting."

"Who is she?"

"A friend."

"Sebastien, I'm serious. Six months I've thought you dead. And now you show up with a girl on your arm like a proper gentleman."

"It's not like that, Mona."

"Then tell me, 'Bastien: who is she?"

Sebastien looked down at Simone and, upon seeing her face, could not help but to laugh.

"Surely you don't think I've brought a scandal to you!"

"I think you did that quite efficiently when you tried to revolt against the government."

"Have I shamed the good Enjolras name with my politics?"

Simone laughed. "Long ago, I'm afraid."

"She's not my mistress, Mona, nor anything of the sort."

Simone shook her head. She had long since learned that anything her cousin did not want to talk about, she would never hear. "You'll tell me one day, won't you?"

"I'll tell you as soon as I see food," Sebastien promised with a laugh. "We've neither slept nor eaten properly since leaving Paris. Our funds were not infinite."

He released Simone's arm and bowed half-mockingly, ushering her into the sitting room.

Sparrow sat alone on the couch, Mathieu across from her in the chair. Though a plate of food sat before her, the girl stared at her lap, her fingers trembling as they traced the folds of her skirt. Without a word, Sebastien went and sat beside her, gesturing for Simone to sit on the girl's other side.

"You should eat," he told her.

"I should leave," Sparrow responded without looking up.

Simone grasped her wrist. "Why, you've only just gotten here."

Sparrow nodded. "I saw him home, I think that's enough. I can't impose."

Mathieu leaned forward, pushing the tray of food closer to her. "At least eat, child." He smiled softly. "Perhaps stay the night. It's already so late and I'm sure it'll only get colder."

"I shouldn't."

Simone shook her head. "Nonsense. Where else would you go? You can't be more than a child."

Sparrow shook her head again. No, she told herself. I cannot stay in a place so grand. She allowed herself to tune out the chatter of Sebastien's reunion with his family. She blocked out all the soft words until Sebastien said, in a surprisingly firm voice:

"There is little more you need to know, Mona. Leave her be. All that is relevant is that her name is Sparrow, she is seventeen, and I am alive thanks to her bravery and her bravery alone."

Sparrow at once looked up at him, but his attention had turned to his uncle. "I was shot, uncle. Quite horribly, in fact. And left for dead. But Sparrow saw me and decided I should live, so she dragged me through Paris – despite being shot herself – and brought me to safety. I'm alive because of her."

Mathieu smiled, doing little to conceal the tears in his eyes. "Then, of course, she must stay here as long as she wishes."

Shaking her head, Sparrow stood, causing first Sebastien and then Simone to stand as well.

"I really do thank you for your hospitality," she said in a single breath. "But I cannot stay."

Mathieu, however, did not rise to join her. "Do you have any family?" was all he asked.

Sparrow shook her head. After all, Sparrow did not. Sparrow was not a person who had ever had anybody. Not a lie, not a sin.

"Then do you at least know of another bed where you can sleep?"

"I'd find one, monsieur, I suppose. We passed an inn not long before we got here."

Mathieu let out a great, deep belly laugh, one so contagious that Sparrow almost smiled. "It's Christmas, my dear. I cannot let you leave. At least...at least stay though the New Year. If, at that point, you wish to fend for yourself, I won't stop you. But there are no words nor numbered days of hospitality that could pay the debt I owe you." He turned to his nephew, who had placed a protective hand between the girl's shoulders. After all, no one in that room, not even Sparrow herself, was unaware of the risks that a young woman would face alone on the run. "Anyway, Mademoiselle Sparrow, what am I to do should another bullet find my nephew?"

Sparrow looked up at Sebastien and nodded before sitting back down. Simone laughed. "You are something of a bird, aren't you?"

Sparrow shrugged, blinking when Sebastien pressed some bread into her hand.

Both Sebastien and Sparrow ate in silence, watched wordlessly by Simone and Mathieu. The silence was only broken when Sparrow yawned, her cheeks immediately reddening upon revealing her exhaustion. At once, Simone stood and extended a hand. "Come along, bird girl. I'll find you something to wear for the night."

Sparrow hesitated for only a moment before standing and giving a quick, awkward curtsy to Sebastien and Mathieu. "Thank you, monsieur. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, my dear," Mathieu said, rising and kissing Sparrow's hand before placing another kiss upon his daughter's cheek. "I shall see you both come morning."

Simone cheerfully looped her arm through Sparrow's, bid her father and Sebastien goodnight, and led Sparrow upstairs. At the top of the staircase, Marguerite stopped them, a stack of white cloth in her hands.

"I've put Mademoiselle in the room next to your own," she told Simone, who grinned and squeezed Sparrow's arm.

"Perfect, I hadn't even thought to ask. Are those mine?"

Marguerite nodded. "Fresh from the laundry."

Simone withdrew her arm from Sparrow and reached out for the stack. "Thank you, Marguerite," she said, kissing the woman's cheek. "Come along, Sparrow."

Sparrow blinked twice and murmured an apology.

"For what?"

"I was distracted."

To her surprise, Simone only grinned wider. "It can be overwhelming," she said, gesturing around the large hallway. "And lonely sometimes. Makes me almost wish Papa and I were the types to throw parties."

Sparrow flushed and looked at the ground. "I didn't even know they made homes this large."

Simone smiled sadly. "My maman was the type to love extravagance." She clutched the cloths to her chest and sighed. "She died, though."

"Mine, too." Sparrow looked up and, though she was surprised to find Simone staring at her with such intensity, she did not look away. After a minute of silent staring, Simone turned on her heel.

"Well, come along, then. You must be exhausted."

Sparrow was quick to catch up.

"This is normally 'Bastien's room," Simone said, kicking a closed door to their left. "In case you're curious."

"I'm not."

Simone laughed and led Sparrow around the corner. "I'm not trying to insinuate anything, I swear. I know my cousin – he doesn't lie to me."

"Unless he's playing dead."

Simone laughed with such force that she nearly dropped the stack in her hands. "Oh, I like you, bird girl." She stepped quickly to her right and pushed open a door that had been left slightly ajar. "But I believe he is your friend and important to you."

But Sparrow had stopped listening. She couldn't help it. She stood now in a room grander than anything she had ever imagined. To her right was a bed large enough, she supposed, for a whole family, piled high with soft white blankets and pillows. To her left was a wardrobe and she was sure that she could put in it every article of clothing she had ever owned and it would still appear mostly empty. Across from where she stood was a large window, taking up most of the wall and, below it, a small writing desk. She stood there perfectly still, taking in every aspect of the room. Wordlessly, she turned to Simone, who had walked over to set the stack of clothing on a trunk that sat at the foot of the bed.

"There are mine, but they'll do until we can get you things of your own. You and my cousin traveled impossibly lightly."

Sparrow could only nod.

"Obviously, tomorrow – well, today, I guess – is Christmas, but later this week we'll go to the dressmaker and get you sized up. I'm sure I have a pattern book somewhere so we can go prepared."

"How?" Sparrow finally managed to ask.

"What do you mean?"

"What will you say? 'This is the fugitive girl traveling with my fugitive cousin who should be dead. Can you make her a dress?'"

Simone sat down on the trunk and laughed. "It won't be an issue, I'm sure. We'll think of something. It wouldn't be unthinkable for Papa to have taken in a ward of sorts."

Sparrow crossed her arms. "I'm not a charity case."

"Don't be silly, Sparrow! I promise any kindness you get from us is well earned."

Sparrow continued to stand there, stiff in the too large room, torn between her desire to throw herself into that cloud of a bed and her desire to run as far away as she could.

Simone sighed. "Sit with me, Sparrow."

Sparrow stared a moment longer before she dropped her arms and obeyed.

"I like you Sparrow," Simone continued. "We'll be good friends, I'm sure of it. Just as I'm sure you'll stay."

"You barely know me."

"So? You don't want to leave."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, you haven't anywhere else, have you?"

"I used to."

"You used to have a name besides Sparrow, too. But times change."

Sparrow looked at her lap. As much as she hated to admit it, she liked Simone. Though her friendliness was intense, the girl was sharp and blunt, just as Sebastien was. But she was far warmer and Sparrow found comfort in that.

"Were you always alone?" Simone asked suddenly.

Sparrow shook her head. "I had a big family once," she whispered. "But then it got smaller."

"How?"

"People die. Or they leave."

Simone leaned over, resting her head on Sparrow's shoulder. "I won't leave. Nor will Papa or Sebastien. I'll try not to die, either."

Sparrow cocked her head. "Why are you being so kind?"

Simone straightened and shrugged. "Sebastien likes you and, well, he doesn't like anyone. I trust his judgment. And I haven't had anyone to be kind to in a long time, so I'm afraid you must be the one to suffer it. Anyway, if we are to pretend you're Papa's ward, we must pretend you're like my sister. That will be fun."

Before Sparrow could respond, there was a knock at the door, which was still cracked ajar.

"What?" Simone snapped.

"It's only me," came Sebastien's voice, as he slipped a hand through the door and held it up.

"What do you want? Sparrow and I were having a deeply moving conversation."

Sebastien ignored her, stepping into the room and speaking directly to Sparrow.

"You should feel free to kick her out. She's a complete pest and you need to sleep. I can see it in your eyes."

"I've slept more than you."

"Hardly." He extended his hand, holding out to Sparrow some books she hadn't noticed before. "These are yours."

Sparrow stood to retrieve them. "Only two. The third I've never seen."

Sebastien smiled. "Merry Christmas. There's a rather large library downstairs, but I figured you'd want something up here to remind yourself that this your space now."

Sparrow's eyes immediately lit up and all exhaustion vanished. "May I see it?"

"The library?"

She nodded.

"In the morning. First thing after breakfast, we'll go there. But you must sleep first."

"Oh, 'Bastien," Simone sighed, walking over and clutching one of the pillows to her chest. "You're no fun."

Sebastien smiled. "It can wait. I promise, little bird, it won't disappear while you sleep. Come on, Simone, let her rest."

With a sigh, Simone grasped Sparrow's shoulder. "Sleep well, bird girl. I'm in the next room over should you need anything."

"'Bastien!" Sparrow heard Simone hiss the second the door shut behind her. She heard Sebastien sigh before a door in the hallway latched. She knew she shouldn't, but she could not help it. Quickly kicking off her shoes to lighten her step, Sparrow pulled her door open and stepped out into the hall, tiptoeing to the door she knew was Simone's and pressing her ear against it.

"You have no sense of fun, do you?" she heard Simone say.

"I've missed you too," was Sebastien's only reply.

"I'm serious,

'Bastien. I get it. Nothing bothers you. But you're a man and you're twenty-two years old. If you were telling the truth, she's seventeen years old. She's a child."

"You only turned eighteen in July! You're scarcely older than she."

"That's besides the point! Christ, Sebastien. That , that poor girl must be terrified. She's a kid you barely know who's lost everything she has, including her city, and is now thrown into a house that even I get lost in, and I've been here my whole life."

"And you and Uncle Mathieu have been nothing but kind and welcoming. Well, Uncle Mathieu, at least."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"She has a name."

"Yes. Sparrow. It suits her."

"Then why 'bird girl?'"

Simone laughed. "I like her, 'Bastien. She's a bird-like little creature, though. In a good way."

"You still needn't call her names beside her own. You should make her feel welcomed."

"I am, you silly. No one gives pet names to people they don't care about."

Sparrow smiled through the door, listening carefully as Simone continued:

"But what we call her still isn't the point, Sebastien. It takes more than words to make a person comfortable. You ought to have taken her to the library."

Sebastien laughed and Sparrow allowed herself to sit on the floor, leaning against the door. Her eyelids felt so heavy, but she would not allow sleep to take over her. If they were to speak about her, she wanted to know about it. She wanted to listen as they spoke of her, to know their thoughts. She needed to know if this was a place to stay. If she was welcomed.

"Is that why you're annoyed, Mona?" she heard Sebastien ask. "Because I'm making her wait until morning to see the library?"

"Yes! They're just books, Sebastien. "

"She needs to sleep."

"So? Perhaps she'd feel comfortable enough to do so if you didn't dictate her every move."

Sparrow froze. She hadn't thought of it like that. True, it had been Sebastien who decided when and where they went and where they stayed along the way, but she had trusted that he kept her best interest in mind. But was she wrong in thinking that? She had always been told that it was up to her to save herself, yet was it so wrong to think that someone could help her find the right way? She pressed her ear closer to the door, hoping that Sebastien's reply would justify his control over her.

"She needs something to look forward to," he said, and Sparrow thought that, perhaps, she had missed something.

"What does that even mean?"

"She…she's not normal, Mona."

Had she the energy, Sparrow would have stood and forced her way into the room with the demand that Sebastien explain himself. Thus, she was fortunate that Simone did so on her behalf.

"What in God's name are you talking about Sebastien? She seems like a perfectly pleasant girl who's gone through just as much trauma as you have, in case you've forgotten!"

"Can you truly think for a second that I have forgotten? I know exactly how scared she must be. And, even in her fear, yes, she is a pleasant girl," Sebastien snapped back, and, shutting her eyes, Sparrow smiled to herself. Being pleasant was something no one had ever said of her before.

"Then what on earth is the issue?" came Simone's irritated voice through the door. "What?! Are you afraid of spoiling her by showing her some silly library?"

Even through the door, Sparrow could hear Sebastien hushing his cousin.

"Do you want to wake her?" he hissed.

"I'm sorry! Just – just tell me what you mean?"

There was a very long silence. So long, in fact, that Sparrow would have most certainly fallen asleep right there on the floor, had Sebastien not finally sighed and said:

"When you – or anyone else for that matter – is angry or sad or happy or anything else, there's often a reason and a…a scale, so to speak. But Sparrow's different. She jumps in an instant from joy to terror to grief. She could be happy and singing one second and perched, sobbing on a windowsill the next, ready to tumble away into nothingness. She is a wonderful girl – a wonderful person. She's clever and caring and, when it suits her, comical. But she has, I believe, been through more trauma than you or I could imagine. She's…unstable."

To Sparrow's surprise and embarrassment, Simone laughed. She immediately felt the tears well up into her eyes. But then, to her surprise, Simone said, "Oh, Sebastien! I could say the same thing of you. A lack of any emotion is just as troubling as an overflow."

"I know," said Sebastien softly. "I know. I just…" he sighed and Sparrow clutched her skirt, anxious for what he would say next. "If she were to run back to Paris alone, she'd die. Not because she can't protect herself – I'm sure she could. But she wouldn't. I don't think she cares enough about her own life. So I have to give her something to look forward to. A reason to stay."

"Aren't you reason enough?"

Shaking, Sparrow pushed her entire body even closer to the door.

"I don't know," Sebastien said, and she couldn't help but wonder if that uncertainty hurt him. "As far as I can tell, Mona, she's been abandoned by everyone she's ever known. She has no reason to think that I will remain a stable element in her life because they cannot possibly exist. I need her to not abandon herself long enough to know that I will not abandon her."

"Nor will I. Or Papa."

Sebastien then mumbled something that Sparrow couldn't understand, but, whatever it was, it made Simone laugh.

"This isn't for you, cousin, so don't flatter yourself. I like her; she seems to me a sweet girl. Just lost."

"She is."

Sparrow let her head drop to her shoulders and her eyes slip shut. For a moment, she felt like a tricked child. He was withholding things from her for the mere purpose of manipulating her into staying. She could leave right that moment were she not so horribly tired. At the same time, she was relieved. They wanted her to stay. It had been such a long time since she had even considered the notion that someone cared whether she lived or died - someone could care more than empty words. True, she knew that Sebastien would eventually move past it should she leave. Eventually he would forget about her and Sparrow would cease to exist, just as the girl with a name had done. But, at least for a little bit, he might be sad. He would maybe even try to find her. Or, perhaps, at least think about it. Maybe, for a year or so, he would think of her when her saw something of Wollstonecraft in his uncle's library. She could take that, being remembered for a year, maybe even a few months more. But she could not bear the thought of making Sebastien sad. Would hers become another life he had irrationally thought lost at his own hands? That would be very stupid indeed.

It might be for the best if I stay, she found herself thinking. At least for a while. He would grow to care less – affection, after all, is nothing more than a game for children and fools – and then she could leave without causing him grief or guilt – she was not worth such pain. And, anyway, she didn't want to think of him being sad. If she waited until the very last moment before he abandoned her, she could leave guiltless, robbing him only of the chance to tell her to leave. Yes, that would certainly be the best way to go about it.

I should stand, she realized, but her eyes were so heavy. Anyway, the world had grown silent now. She emitted a small, sleepy gasp when the wall moved behind her, but made no move to get away from it. She let out a yawn as she seemed to float up off of the ground.

"Aren't you a little eavesdropper," whispered Sebastien's voice near her ear.

She only nuzzled against him.

"You certainly are a world of trouble," he muttered, kicking her door.

"I won't leave," she murmured, squinting open her eyes as he set her upon the bed. "I'll stay."

Sebastien's blurry figure sat down beside her with a sigh. "I will not force you to stay. I want you to, but if you leave, don't do it because you think you are unwanted here. We would prefer it if you stayed."

"Would you be sad if I left?"

"Extremely so."

Yawning, she turned onto her side, curling her legs up and clutching a pillow. "Then I shan't."

"Goodnight, little bird," Sebastien whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Sparrow muttered something that might have been goodnight in response. She was fast asleep before the door even shut.


	9. Normality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who's reading this! Your comments are always so appreciated, they really give me the incentive to keep writing. I'm also super sorry for the delay in posting this, but I'll put more on that in the end.  
> Thank you to Mel, who remains the best beta ever.
> 
> Disclaimer: Les Mis is not mine

Not a single week of her entire life – neither as Sparrow nor the other girl – had passed as quickly as her first week at the estate of Monsieur Mathieu Enjolras. As Sebastien had told her the second time he found her wandering lost and ashamed through the maze of halls, there was no shame at all in getting lost, for it was far too large to even be called a house. Estate. That was the term he used. It made it sound all the more grand and imposing. It was not horrible, though. Each morning, often before Sparrow had even finished dressing, Simone would burst into her room, chattering away and walking her to breakfast. For so early in the morning, Sparrow was astounded by the sheer amounts of food. It seemed unreal. She could scarcely bring herself to eat more than perhaps a piece of toast and a sip of coffee. With all the food at their other meals throughout the day, breakfast seemed unnecessary. But still Sparrow sat there smiling, cheerfully chatting with Simone, Sebastien, and Monsieur Mathieu. Days were mostly spent in the library (which, Sparrow supposed, offered her enough wonder that Sebastien must think it incentive to stay). The three would pass the day huddled by the fire, reading aloud or simply talking to one another, occasionally joined by Monsieur Mathieu, who would converse with them, or by Marguerite, who would remind them to put all the books away in their proper positions. Never in Sparrow's life had a week seemed so...normal. And, thus, before she knew it, it was New Years Eve. That morning, she woke early to the collapse of a heavy weight upon her bed.

"Simone," she whined, hitting the other girl with her pillow. "What are you doing?"

She felt Simone turn and crawl towards the foot of her bed.

"Do you skate?"

"No."

"Never?"

Sparrow sighed. "There was a creek in the woods near where I grew up. When we were small, we'd run and stumble around once it froze over."

"But not on skates?"

"No. Why do you care?"

Once again, Simone shuffled around at the foot of the bed. "No reason."

Suddenly, something very cold pressed against Sparrow's foot. "Simone!" she shrieked with a start, finally sitting up. Simone was sitting on one corner of the bed, smiling bashfully as she pressed her bare foot against Sparrow's. "What are you doing?"

"Your feet are smaller than mine."

Sparrow sighed and flopped back down.

"Surely there must have been a better way of determining that. Like asking."

Simone ignored her. "You should fit perfectly into my old skates."

Sparrow said nothing. Yes, her feet were smaller, but hardly. The fact that Simone owned skates that could fit Sparrow but were too small for Simone herself baffled her. When Sparrow had last grown out of a pair of shoes, the man who had been her father cut out the toes. When her feet grew larger still, she had given the shoes to the girl who had been her sister and contented herself with going about barefoot. There was never a new pair of shoes, not to mention something as trivial as ice skates.

But perhaps the thought of the foolishness of owning two pairs of ice-skates went unnoticed by Simone, for she simply crawled back up the bed and pulled at Sparrow's hands until she sat up.

"Come on, bird girl! It'll be fun!"

Though Sparrow allowed Simone to pull her to the end of the bed, she said, "I've a better idea. You go and fetch Sebastien in here and we still all have fun but I never have to leave my bed."

"Ah. Well, I suppose that depends. Would it be the type of fun I could stick around for or not?"

Sparrow immediately reached back for a pillow to hit Simone once more. "You're horrible, you know that, don't you?"

Simone merely shrugged. "Rumor has it I'm a wicked little tramp. I try to live up to people's expectations. Now come  _on_!" With a final yank, she brought Sparrow stumbling up. "Well, start changing. I'll do up your laces."

Sparrow let out an annoyed grunt as she pulled her nightgown over her head. "I hate wearing a corset," she muttered, slipping into fresh underclothes.

Simone, who had turned her back to find Sparrow's corset, laughed as she turned back and flung the garment at her. "Nonsense," she said. "You look like a child without it."

"Ah, but haven't you heard your cousin? I am."

Simone laughed and walked over, shoving Sparrow towards the mirror. With a sigh, she began to lace up the other girl, her eyes on their reflection. "Does it still hurt much?" she couldn't help but ask.

Sparrow looked down at the still mangled flesh stretching from the top of her left breast to nearly her shoulder. Subconsciously, she raised a hand to run her fingers over it. True, most nights she still awoke sweating and shaking, clawing at the spot as though the ball had never left. But during waking hours, while all was covered by the finery of her wardrobe, it seldom troubled her.

"No," she said quietly, pulling her hair forward so that Simone could better see the exit wound upon her back. "Touch it. Go ahead."

Simone sucked in a deep breath before hesitantly touching the scar. After a moment, her hand moved delicately to Sparrow's protruding shoulder blade. "You're too skinny," she said finally.

Sparrow forced a laugh. "I've been worse." She saw Simone's eyes widen in the mirror before she began pulling at the laces.

"Most girls wear these damn things because they want a tiny waist. You need one because your bones will tear your clothes if you don't." She giggled as she finished the laces and placed a soft kiss on Sparrow's cheek. "There. Now you're perfect."

But Sparrow said nothing. She simply looked down, past her flat front and stared at her feet. She had never particularly minded being skinny. She didn't like starving, but she had always possessed a small figure. The sister she used to have had been plump as a child, when there was food to be had. Even when they starved, the mother she once had had never been small.

But Sparrow was not that girl anymore, so she merely shrugged and said quietly, "Well, you're not exactly plump."

Simone simply laughed again. "Fat, bony, it doesn't matter. If you ate as much as I do and still had all these sharp edges, I'd let you be. But you don't eat."

"I do."

"Scarcely."

Before Sparrow could respond again, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in!"

The door was open before Sparrow could even register Simone's response. At once, she shrieked and ran for her dressing gown, which she immediately clutched to herself rather than take the time to fully put it on.

"Christ, Simone!" Sebastien stammered, as he immediately turned his back to them, his neck glowing red. "You can't tell me come in when she's  _naked_!"

Simone rolled her eyes and said dramatically, "Oh, no! Womanly shoulders! Have neither of you any shame?" She then proceeded to grab Sebastien's wrist and pull him fully into the room. Though she dragged him straight to Sparrow, he kept his eyes downcast.

"I apologize again for my cousin," he told her without looking up. "I assure you I saw nothing and would leave this instant if I could."

Sparrow opened her mouth to speak, but Simone was quick to do so first.

"The utter scandal of seeing the girl you've lived with for half a year in her pantalets. Now, stop whining; I've a question for you! Sparrow, don't be such a silly, drop that thing. 'Bastien, look up."

In a single swift motion, Sebastien lifted his eyes from his feet to Sparrow's face.

Though furiously flushed, Sparrow dropped her dressing gown and, standing there in only her underclothes, said, "I haven't much that needs hiding anyway."

Though she heard Simone burst into laughter, she kept her eyes on Sebastien, whose face was burning all the more.

"You may laugh, Sebastien." To no one's surprise, he didn't.

When Simone's laughter finally subsided, Sebastien asked, "Is there a reason you're forcing this situation?"

"Did you know she took a bullet through the chest?"

Sebastien's eyes widened slightly, but he only said, "I assumed her injury was more grievous than her hand."

"Hm…"

Sebastien finally tore his eyes from Sparrow to glare at his cousin. "How, though, is that applicable to this situation?"

With an exaggerated sigh, Simone pointed at the scar on Sparrow's chest. Sebastien slowly lowered his eyes to the mark just above the swell of her breast.

"You're lucky to have lived," he said quietly and it was only then that Sparrow realized that she and Sebastien had never discussed their injuries. Until now, he had never known just how closely she had missed death.

But she just allowed herself to laugh and say, "You've gained just as much from my life as I have."

Without thinking or, Sparrow presumed, realizing what he was doing, Sebastien lifted his right hand and, so very lightly, brushed a finger over the scar. "A centimeter lower," he murmured so quietly that Sparrow could barely hear him. "Just a centimeter and we'd both be dead."

"Yes."

Perhaps it was the sound of her voice or the way her chest rose when she spoke, but it seemed to be only then that Sebastien became aware of the position of his hand. Immediately he withdrew it, eyes widening, and shoved both hands into his pockets.

"I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast," he said quickly before departing.

As soon as he had left the room, Sparrow rounded on Simone. "Was that really necessary?"

Simone grinned and pulled a deep blue dress from Sparrow's wardrobe. "A little. I wanted him to know how lucky he was – I think he forgets that sometimes." When Sparrow only continued to glare, she continued, "I also wanted to know if he's as scared of breasts as I've heard he is."

Sparrow's mouth fell open. "Oh, I could hit you right now."

"Oh, but his face! You must have appreciated his face."

"No, I did not! Why, any remotely decent man would be uncomfortable when forced into a room with a half naked lady."

"But have you ever even met a half decent man?"

Sparrow pressed her lips together. She stared at Simone for a minute, searching her mind for a decently witty response, but when she found none, crossed her arms of her chest and said, "Don't be a silly, I can't wear that!"

Simone looked down at the dress in her arms. "Why not? It's a lovely dress."

"We're going out skating, aren't we?"

Simone nodded, grinning. "Blue's a lovely color on you, especially once you're out in the snow."

Sparrow shook her head, eyebrows scrunching together in confusion. "Simone, I'll destroy it. It'll get soaked in the snow and ice and, Christ, skates are like knives. I'll tear it for sure!"

"This?" Simone shook her head. "This is an old one of mine. I'm afraid I grew out of it, but you needn't worry. I told you, didn't I, that as soon as the holidays are over, we'll go get you some nice dresses of your own."

"But I don't need anything!" Sparrow took the dress from Simone's hands and returned it to the wardrobe. It was all just so silly. Simone seemed to have a large collection of dresses that she didn't wear from one reason or another and all of them fit Sparrow just fine. It was nothing more than foolish to waste the money to take her out to buy brand new dresses when she had a perfectly fancy wardrobe right here. The previous year, she had had a single shirt and a single skirt to take her through summer and winter alike. And now, it seemed, she could go a month or more without ever repeating an outfit. How utterly frivolous! She bit hard upon her lip out of fear that she would let her thoughts fly completely out of her mouth. She couldn't help but wonder if this was something specific to people of Simone's clearly high status, or if even someone only a step higher than she had been would own two dresses at least for each day of the week. She tried to think back to her childhood, to remember how large or small her wardrobe might have been. But all of the lace and ruffles blurred together in her mind. Shaking her head, she hung the dress back up and took out the plain grey frock she had last worn upon her arrival.

"I could never forgive myself if I tore your dress, Simone," she said, forcing a smile. "It would be horribly ungrateful."

Simone grasped both of Sparrow's hands in her own. "It's not my dress, Sparrow," she said with a smile far more genuine than the one she was receiving. "I've given it to you. It's yours now. And a bit of snow won't ruin it. Snow dries. And if it tears, we'll fix it. Please, just wear the dress."

"Why?"

"Because everyone deserves some extravagance in life."

So, with a sigh and a rush of affection for her new friend, Sparrow returned to the wardrobe and pulled back out the blue dress. A few minutes later, after combing her hair and pulling on her warmest stockings, she followed Simone downstairs to join Sebastien and Monsieur Mathieu for breakfast. It was an unexciting affair. Monsieur Mathieu silently read his newspaper, occasionally announcing an interesting headline (or, at least, ones that were interesting in his own mind) to the table. Sebastien and the girls would nod and perhaps let out an appropriate exclamation at each article, but were otherwise silent.

Simone, despite normally being the slowest eater in the household, all but inhaled her breakfast and darted away from the table before anyone could ask her where she was going. Sebastien and Sparrow exchanged a confused glance, but said nothing. Monsieur Mathieu, however, seemed unconcerned of his daughter's whereabouts and, within five minutes, she had returned, a large and bulky bag in her arms.

"I doubt your feet have grown since you last skated," she said to her cousin, pulling a pair of skates from the bag.

Sparrow could not help but giggle at the image of the stoic Sebastien Enjolras skating upon a frozen river. Neither her laughter nor its cause went unnoticed by Sebastien.

"Does the image of me on ice humor you, little bird?"

Sparrow grinned, her cheeks tinged pink. "Only a bit."

Though his mouth stayed in a straight line, Sparrow could swear he was smiling at her.

"I was going to stay in today," he said with a sigh, turning to Simone. "Tell you girls to run along and leave me alone."

Simone shrugged. "It would be a shame to deprive Mademoiselle Sparrow of her entertainment."

Sparrow laughed again. "I just need you there in case I fall in. It would be too much of a shame if Simone were to get herself sick rescuing me."

Sebastien rolled his eyes and stood, gesturing for Sparrow to join them. After a quick goodbye to Monsieur Mathieu, the three made their way to the door, lacing up their boots and bundling themselves in scarves. Simone giggled as she pulled a thick woolen hat over her mess of curls.

"Oh, 'Bastien!" she laughed. "Look at him, Sparrow, he looks like a little boy!"

Sebastien rolled his eyes. "I'm eight years older than you. Hardly a child."

Sparrow wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck. "I think she just means you look happy. Well, happier than normal."

"It pains me," he said with a small smile, "What I do for you girls."

It took them nearly twenty minutes to get to their destination. The area was slightly wooded and the river curved smoothly through the trees, completely frozen over. The snowy air possessed a deafening silence, so strong it almost obscured Simone's laughter. Sparrow could not help herself but stop in her tracks and take in the beauty around it. It was both far more serene and far more chaotic than anything she had ever before seen in her life. Yes, she had walked through the snow more times than she could count, but never in a world of such…nothingness. When she closed her eyes, she felt perhaps as if she had ceased to exist as a human and had instead become the whole world, encompassing everything and nothing. She could have stood there, silent and unmoving, forever. But Sebastien's voice called to her and brought her back to reality.

"Have you skated before, little bird?"

She blinked twice and shook her head.

"No, never."

"Well, come on then," Simone laughed, and beckoned them to join her over at an uprooted tree. With a gloved hand, she brushed the snow away and motioned for Sparrow to sit upon it. A few minutes later, all three had on skates and Sparrow stood between the two cousins, clutching each as though her very life depending on it.

Simone was the first onto the ice, gliding backwards easily and holding her hands out to Sparrow.

"Don't worry," she said. "I've got you."

With a deep breath, Sparrow released Sebastien from her grip and grabbed Simone's hands in her own.

"Just step onto the ice," Sebastien said from behind her. "We won't let you fall."

Within ten seconds, she had fallen backwards into his waiting arms.

"What outstanding faith you have in me," she muttered in annoyance, straightening herself back up.

Sebastien ignored her snark. "I promised to not to let you fall," he said plainly. "You could have skated every day of your life and I'd still be prepared to keep my word."

Simone and Sparrow immediately burst out laughing and, despite her annoyance with Sebastien, Sparrow clung to him to avoid being forced to the ground by her own laughter.

"Did you hear that bird girl?" Simone roared. "Dear Sebastien intends to follow you 'til the end of your days – God forbid you ever fall!"

Sparrow laughed all the harder, leaning against Sebastien for support.

"I – I don't get what's funny about that," he stammered.

Simone shook her head and said, both mockingly and affectionately, "'If I say I won't let you fall, I will do everything in my power because I am a  _man_  and men keep their words.'"

Sebastien looked down at Sparrow, who was laughing so hard that tears slipped from her eyes. "I – I don't say things like that."

"Oh, but you do!"

Sebastien caught her eyes and shrugged. A moment later, he was standing half a foot from where he had been before and Sparrow, unable to control either her laughter or her feet, was lying on her side, cushioned by the snow along the bank.

"Sebastien!" Simone exclaimed, immediately holding out her hands to Sparrow, who had turned her face to hide beneath her arm and was lying motionless.

"I seem to have broken my word," Sebastien said with a smirk. But Sparrow neither moved nor responded. His face paled and he immediately knelt down beside her, looking genuinely remorseful. "I'm sorry, Sparrow. That was petty and rude of me. Forgive me?"

But the girl still didn't stir.

"Little bird?" He brought his face down to where hers was hiding, wondering what on earth could have caused him to act so childishly.

But as soon as his hair fell forward and swept her ear, Sparrow let out a shrill screech and threw a handful of snow into his surprised face.

Again, Simone burst into hysterical laughter and pulled Sparrow up from the snow and dragged her onto the ice, both girls shaking as he sat there, sputtering on the bank. "Was that truly necessary?"

Both girls nodded, still clutching each other and laughing like schoolgirls. Sebastien sat on the bank a moment longer, staring at them with a mischievous grin upon his face before he darted up, a handful of snow in each hand, and skated easily across the ice to where the girls let out a shriek of laughter and attempted to skate away. They got no further than five feet before Sparrow went tumbling down again, shrieking out Simone's name as they were separated. Simone turned and began to reach down to help her up, but upon seeing Sebastien's rising hand, she immediately darted away.

"Sacrifices must be made!" she called laughing over her shoulder as she rounded a bend.

Sparrow pouted, staring at Simone as she skated away, until she felt Sebastien's hand on her shoulder.

"Shall we make her pay?"

With a grin, Sparrow grabbed onto his arms and pulled herself up.

"Stand behind me," he instructed. "And hold onto me."

Sparrow obeyed and moved, shakily, behind him, wrapping her warms around his chest. She felt one of his hands reach up to cover hers. "You ready?"

"No."

"Should I go?"

"Yes."

She heard him laugh before he began moving his legs slowly, one foot and then the other, dragging her behind him. By the time he rounded the bend after Simone, Sparrow was giggling like a girl.

"Faster!" she demanded, and he obeyed. For several minutes, they continued to glide along the ice. And then, without warning, they stopped.

"What's wrong?"

Sebastien slowly turned around, Sparrow's arms still tightly around his middle. "Where's Mona?" he asked, his eyes wandering around the trees on either bank.

Sparrow too turned her head, looking for any sign of the other girl. "Shit," she whispered. She couldn't help but to laugh as she clung to Sebastien.

"I have no idea where she is," he said.

"Nor I."

"Not a clue," he reiterated, lightly grabbing Sparrow's chin and turning her head to a pile of snow that had built up on the far bank. Sparrow's mouth opened in a tiny 'o' as she turned back to him.

"Could she have gone in?"

Sebastien laughed. "The river?"

"The house."

"I doubt it," he said with a wink, holding a single finger to his lips. He turned once more, clutching Sparrow to his back, and moved quietly as he could to the snowdrift.

"Ha!" Sparrow called, peaking around him.

But Simone wasn't there. Suddenly, there was a shout from behind them and a Sparrow felt Simone throw herself at them from behind, causing both Sebastien and Sparrow to tumble down onto the bank.

"What's happened to you 'Bastien? You skate like a little boy!"

Sebastien tried to lift his face from the snow, but felt himself pinned down by Sparrow, who sat on his back, glaring up at Simone with mock anger, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You cheated."

"There are no rules, bird girl. I can't cheat if there aren't rules."

Sparrow stuck out her tongue in response.

"You both are hopelessly childish." Sebastien muttered from where he was still pinned in the snow.

"Oh, hush," Simone snapped playfully, plucking off her hat and tossing it at her cousin's face. "The ladies are talking."

"My apologies. I thought a brat was harping on to a bird."

Simone let out an indignant gasp as Sparrow turned about, leaning her face close in to Sebastien's. "A bird can still be a lady," she told him, putting on the most serious face she could muster. But it lasted only a moment before she once more burst into laughter and let herself drop completely onto him, her head in the snow beside his own. "Oh," she exclaimed, seeing his bright red face staring back at her. At once, she pushed herself up and held out her hands to him. "Oh, Christ, Sebastien, I'm sorry! You must be freezing!"

Sebastien shook his head, brushing the snow from his hair as he stood. "I'm fine. Really."

"No, really! I should have gotten up sooner," she said, taking off her mitten to brush the snow from his still reddening cheeks. But he quickly ducked aside, avoiding her hand.

"I'm fine," he repeated. "You're right, just a bit cold. Perhaps we should go inside. I'll…see you."

And then he was off, skating back in the direction from which they had come. Simone turned to Sparrow, a perplexed expression upon her face.

"What is he doing? He lives with us." She continued staring at Sparrow, who's expression near mirrored her own before suddenly muttering, "Oh, that bastard!" and skating off after her cousin.

"Simone, wait!" But she was gone. Sparrow stood there alone on the bank. Pouting, she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. "Sebastien!" she called. " _Sebastien_!"

She bit her lip. He was just cold; he had just needed to get inside. He would not leave her. No, she refused to believe that her time had run out so quickly. It had been only a week in his uncle's home and already he had left her alone in the woods, shivering in the snow.

"Shit," she whispered, realizing she had foolishly allowed a tear to slip from her eyes. Angrily brushing it away, she forced herself onto the ice. Wobbling back and forth, she slowly dragged one foot in front of the other, pushing herself forward as she had seen Sebastien do it. One, two, three, four – And then she was sitting on the ice, in a dress, cape, hat, and scarf that weren't hers in a woods she didn't know. She quickly ripped her other mitten off and tossed it aside and began to rapidly unlace one of her skates, tossing it away from her with a frustrated scream. She was almost done unlacing the other when she heard Sebastien call her name. At once, she looked up and there he was, skating around the bend, approaching her quickly. Sparrow immediately felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. How foolish she must look, crying alone on a frozen river, a single, stocking-clad foot sticking out from her skirt.

He skidded to a stop beside her and dropped to his knees. Wordlessly, he wrapped her in his arms and held her close. There were no words, harsh or otherwise. There was no telling her that she was acting like a child, that she shouldn't be crying. It felt wrong to be so surprised that he would comfort her, that he would seem to understand her absolute misery in that moment. For six months he had watched her try to make sense about how life had treated her in the past and how it was treating her now. It would have been a miracle for him to remain oblivious to the utter terror the world held for her. And still her tears stopped falling as she sat there in shock that he was there.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against his chest, though she was not sure what she was sorry for.

"Don't be," he told her, running his ran through her hair. "I shouldn't have gone off. I should not have left you and I am so, so sorry."

After that, both went silent. Sebastien continued to kneel upon the ice, Sparrow wrapped tightly in his arms until both his knees and her bottom had gone completely numb.

"Simone went ahead," Sebastien said finally, pulling back to look Sparrow in the eye. "She wanted to make sure there'd be something warm waiting for us. Are you ready to go in?"

Though his face was as emotionless as ever, Sparrow could not help but appreciate the concern in his eyes. She nodded. Without a word, Sebastien went and retrieved her skate and, to Sparrow's surprise sat back down at her feet.

"They're annoying enough to put on sitting properly. It's even worse on the ice," he said, pulling her foot onto his lap and staring at it for a moment. "Did Simone give you these?"

Sparrow nodded. "She gave me three pairs of stockings, each of them red. I don't really get it though. Pretty stockings seem a bit silly, doesn't it? I mean, no one will see them, why waste the money on a color?"

Sebastien laughed as he loosened the laces of her skate. "Because, and I'm surprised you haven't already realized this, my cousin is the most annoying and nosiest little brat in France."

Sparrow giggled and relaxed her leg as he delicately guided her foot into the skate. "What's so nosy about forcing me into red stockings?"

Sebastien's face flushed as he finished lacing up the shoe. "Trust me on this one. Everything Mona does has an extra motive she's not telling you. Not necessarily a selfish one. Just a secret one. Now, come on, I'm sure you can scarcely feel your…legs."

Sparrow let Sebastien pull her up and guide her back along the river to where her boots sat waiting for her in the snow. They began their walk back to the house in silence, Sparrow staring at her own feet as she contemplated the events of that morning.

No matter how she thought about it, she could not even conceive an idea to explain Sebastien's sudden departure. They had been having such an enjoyable morning. She and Simone had been nearly sobbing with laughter and even Sebastien himself had laughed far more than he typically did. And, yet, without warning, he had left. It was too sudden. There was no explanation. She could feel her heart race and her breath begin to quiver with the effort of finding an explanation, with trying to find anything, true or false, to justify his disappearance. In the back of her mind, she was aware of Sebastien saying her name, but she just allowed her head to shake slightly as she kept walking.

"Sparrow," he said, and this time there was far more force. He stepped in front of her to prevent her from walking away. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing."

"You're crying."

"I'm not," she lied childishly, trying to swerve away.

"Sparrow." This time, he grabbed each of her arms to keep her before him.

At once, and without even realizing she was doing so, she turned her head quickly to one side, shutting her eyes and squeezing her shoulders in as if to block herself from him. Immediately he released her.

"Shit." She opened her eyes, never before having heard him swear. He now stood some two or three feet from her, his hands held up as if surrendering. His eyes were wider than she had ever before seen them – he looked as though he were drowning in his shame. "I'm sorry," he said, and she believed it. "I'm so, so sorry."

Sparrow allowed herself four deep breaths before she nodded and said, "Why did you leave?" Sebastien only cocked his head, as though he were confused. "On the river. You just left."

Sebastien continued to stare at her and she could all but decipher the words racing through his mind as he sought out a reasonable explanation. But, apparently, there was none to be found.

"I don't know." As he looked down at his feet, Sparrow could not help but to feel as though he knew exactly why he left, he just did not deem her worth knowing. "I wish I had something to justify it, but not even anything I can imagine would do that." He stepped forward, staring back up at her. "You're scared. I know that, little bird, and I shouldn't have gone away. But I will not leave. I promise."

"I'd just like to go inside, I think."

Sebastien quickly nodded and held out his hand. "Let me carry your skates, at least."

Nodding, Sparrow handed them over and they finished their walk in silence. Even finding Simone in the library, surrounded by sweets and tea, was a quiet affair. Sparrow watched as the two cousins exchanged looks, both apparently frustrated, but she could not decipher either's meaning. Grabbing a simple looking cake, she made her way to the far corner in the library and curled up in a plush green chair (already deemed 'Sparrow's Perch' by Simone), and flipped through the stack of books on the table. It had started as only two or three books, ones she had heard of before and wanted to read, but it had grown each day as Sebastien, Simone, and Monsieur Mathieu added to it books they thought would suit her. It pleased her, for now she could read most of the words on her own, only occasionally having to ask Sebastien for help (as she was still to nervous to ask Simone or Monsieur Mathieu). She was mindlessly flipping through the volumes when a piece of paper fluttered out from the pages of a particularly much-read book. She picked it up from her lap and glanced at it, a list of sorts in Simone's hand.

"Simone," she called softly across the room. "This was in one of the books."

Both Simone and Sebastien looked up at her.

"Oh!" Simone's eyes immediately brightened upon seeing the list. "I've been looking for that!"

Sebastien shut his own book and set it in his lap. "And what is it?"

"Plays I'd like to see one day. Oh, we should go to the theater! Not you, of course, but Sparrow and myself. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

Sparrow nodded, her eyes running over the list as she stood and walked over to the others. She had to bite her lip to keep from shouting out as she examined the titles.

"What's this one?" she all but demanded, pointing to a title towards the bottom of the list.

Both Simone and Sebastien leaned forward to see of which one she spoke. "Which?"

"Third from the bottom.  _Eponine et Sabinus_."

Simone laughed. "Oh, that! That's my romantic side, I suppose. If 'Bastien had one, it would be his, too. Do you know of it?"

Sparrow shrugged, though her heart raced. "I've heard of it. Will you tell me about it?"

Sebastien patted the space on the couch between Simone and himself and Sparrow immediately sat between them. "Simone says it's romantic," he began. "And I suppose it is. But the actual story, it's so much more than romance. I'll give you the abbreviated version, though. Sabinus was Roman officer who tried to start a revolt. But, like so many, it was unsuccessful. So he faked his own death and lived in hiding for many years. His wife, Epponina or Eponine, as we've made it, lived a double life. It was, I suppose, a well-known secret what they were doing. Even after his 'death,' they had children. But the emperor grew tired of their deceit, so he had Sabinus and Eponine arrested and brought to him. When he ignored Eponine's pleas for her husband's life, she criticized him, utterly berated him, until he called for her own execution along side her husband."

"And that's all?"

Sebastien shrugged. "I've never seen nor read it. I just know the story behind it. People liked it, both when I was younger and before I was even born. It is both a love story and a story of patriotism. I suppose it doesn't matter which was stronger – Epponina's love for Sabinus or her patriotism. I suppose one became the other. She lived her life as she wanted to live it and that involved fighting and dying for love and country."

Sparrow nodded and handed Simone the paper. "Will you excuse me?" she asked in a small voice. "I – excuse me."

Before either could stop her, Sparrow walked, both as quickly and calmly as she could, out of the library and, once she was sure she was both out of sight and out of hearing, she dashed around to the front stairs and up to the room which had been given to her. Trembling she locked the door behind her and walked forward. Unable to stand and unwilling to sit, she clutched at her bedpost, breathing heavily.

The story of Eponine and her husband was not one she was unfamiliar with. Her entire childhood, the childhood that was no longer hers, had been filled with their tale. But never had it be phrased to her as such. Never had she been told to think of Eponine as a figure of patriotism. She was a woman who loved with all that she was. That's what she had been told. That her entire person was defined by her ability to love and be loved. But in just a few words, she realized it was so much more. Love did not exclude patriotism. Love was not everything. Sebastien had said so himself, it was "so much more than romance." And perhaps that was life. Perhaps romance was not all she needed in life. After all, all she had thought she once possessed, she was realizing may not have been all that love was meant to be after all. And so there was something comforting in those words.

" _She lived her life as she wanted to live it and that involved fighting and dying for love and country."_

She smiled as her breath returned to its normal speed. She had fought for what part of her still believed was love. And, she believed, she had seemed to die for it. But the bullet that found her had not been aimed at a lover; it had been aimed at a patriot. So, perhaps, if she could fight and die for the love she still clung to and the country that seemed to hate her, she could live life as she willed it. She could start afresh properly, with nothing from her past. She had already left behind her name and her family. And now, here she stood in a new home with a new name and people who could be something of a family. It was up to her, she realized suddenly. All she had to do was stop thinking, stop dreaming of the name she had once had, of the life she once lived, of the boy she loved.

That, of course, had been Epponina's downfall. She had clung to Sabinus, trailing him after death. She never started afresh, she merely continued. Perhaps, if she had acted differently, both she and her husband would have lived. It would have been hard, no doubt. But sacrifices must be made, and love must sometimes be ignored, for life to even exist.

She was jolted from her thoughts by a knock at the door.

"Little bird," came Sebastien's voice. "Are you well?"

Sparrow did not even hesitate before releasing her bedpost and going to unlock the door.

"I won't leave," she said without preamble, staring up at Sebastien. "I'm not going to run away. As long as I am welcomed here, I will stay."

Sebastien only looked taken aback for a moment before he smiled. "I'm glad." And, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him, they made their way back down to the library, where Simone sat on one end of the long couch and Sebastien at the other and Sparrow sat curled up in her chair, content in her newfound normality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, chapter 10 won't take too long. My family is moving next week, so I've more or less be a slave to packing. I have already started the next chapter, though, so it shouldn't take as long as this one did. I appreciate beyond words all of you who have stuck with this.


	10. Mariana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much to those who read/reviewed the last chapter! You're all wonderful.
> 
> This chapter references (a lot) the poem "Mariana" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. It's a fairly short poem, so while you don't need to read it for this chapter to make sense, it's beautiful and you should read it anyway.  
> And, as always, thank you, Mel, for being a wonderful beta.
> 
> Disclaimer: Les Mis and Mariana both aren't mine

"Sparrow?"

She kept her eyes down, glancing quickly over the words of the paper before her. She had heard Simone muttering them as she poured over a long volume shortly after the New Year and, moved by the melody of them, asked to know what they meant. She had sat there beside Simone, wide-eyed, as she read aloud the full poem. The next morning, she had found it transcribed in French (some parts in Simone's hand, others in Sebastien's) and slipped under her door. Since then, she read the poem each night, often more than once, and was thus determined to finish it in peace.

"Sparrow?" Sebastien asked again.

She continued to stare down at the page, though she could no longer focus on the words. How could she possibly be expected to concentrate when he so rudely kept interrupting her?

"Sparrow!"

Without looking up, she waved her hand dismissively, wiping some moisture from her cheek as she brought it back to her lap.

Simone laughed from her seat on the couch and recited, making extra effort to maintain the melody of the translated words:

> _In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,_  
>  _Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn_  
>  _About the lonely moated grange._  
>  _She only said, "The day is dreary,_  
>  _He cometh not," she said;  
> _ _She said, "I am aweary, aweary,  
> _ _I would that I were dead!"_

Pouting, Sparrow pushed the poem from her lap, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Simone. "You needn't recite it, I'm reading it!" she snapped.

Simone smiled warmly. "But don't you see, Mariana mine? If you drown yourself in your feelings, you'll miss what's going on around you."

"What? Has Sebastien finished yet another writer's works? Or has he started another silly little war in the last twenty minutes?"

From the corner of her eye, she could see Sebastien flinch at her harsh words, and, in the back of her mind, she knew she should apologize, but for nearly five minutes he had been calling her name, knowing full well she was reading. Though this was not an uncommon occurrence, for one of the household's young people to call for another, Sparrow felt herself unable to tolerate him and, thus, was unapologetic of her actions.

Simone looked back and forth between her cousin and Sparrow and, her eyes finally settling on the other girl, said, "That was uncalled for. He's just trying to get your attention."

Sparrow kept her arms crossed, but turned her gaze to Sebastien. "Why?"

"You were crying. I suppose I wanted to make nothing was wrong."

"I wasn't crying."

Sebastien let out a small laugh, though immediately looked as though he knew it went unappreciated. "You mustn't keep doing that."

"What? Pointing out your errors?"

"Denying your emotions."

"Hah!"

"What?"

And to Sparrow's pleasure, it was Simone who responded. "Why! 'The raven chides blackness!' Of course, he  _is_  right, Sparrow. He's just the last man on Earth with the right to say so."

"I don't see why that matters. So what if I was crying?" For what was not the first time that day, she refused to acknowledge the quick glance exchanged between the cousins. As quickly as they caught one another's eyes, however, Sebastien turned back to Sparrow.

"I only wanted to ask what was wrong and make sure you were well."

"Must something be so horribly wrong for me to cry?"

Sebastien shrugged. "Wrong, I suppose, comes in many sizes."

"I hate this stupid poem," she hissed, using her toes to push it away. She was too busy scowling at the papers on the floor to notice either Sebastien's concerned stare or Simone's knowing grin.

"Why?" Simone asked.

"Because it's stupid."

"Tell me."

"What's so romantic about a girl who yearns for death?" And, though she tried to speak as angrily as she could, she could hear the desperation in her voice, the way it made her final word crack in a need for validation. "Why must I be told to see beauty in the story of a girl who has no good in her life?"

"On the contrary, bird girl, she has a great deal of good. She just cannot see it."

"Then that is what's stupid."

"Why?" Sebastien asked and Sparrow fell silent, dropping her head and letting her hair cover the way her tears dripped to her lap.

She could hear Simone rise from the couch and come over to kneel before her. "Men," she said, placing a hand on Sparrow's knee. "That is to say, all mankind, young and old, male and female, are slaves to passion. Whether it is passion for blood, for knowledge, for love. Power. Lust. Any or all of it. All people get lost in the abyss of passion, though some for longer than others. And, often, in that abyss, we lose sight of all else. Why, just look at 'Bastien. His passion is France. It has always been and will always be. But these last few years, his passion clouded him to all else. And there is no shame in that. Nor is there shame in Mariana being consumed by her loneliness. If this 'he' is some specific lover and it is his absence that brings her solitude, then for a little while there is no harm in her state."

"And what if she were to kill herself?" Sparrow could not help but ask as she looked up at Simone, her face red and her eyes swollen. "What if she wills herself dead for this lover who will never come? Is there shame in that?"

Simone shook her head and pushed a strand of hair from Sparrow's face. "Oh, you are my Mariana," she whispered. "No, bird girl. There is never shame in passion. Tragedy, yes. One could argue that all the world's tragedy comes from passion. But to have passion is to live and, as long as you hurt no one else, there is no shame in living."

Sparrow let out a choked sob in what was, perhaps, her first full emotional release in Simone's presence. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I fear I must be ill, I'm not myself. I – I should go to bed. Bid your father goodnight and give him my apologies."

"It's barely nine," Sebastien exclaimed, but Simone shot him a poisonous glance as she stood to let Sparrow by.

"Don't worry, love," she said. "Sleep well."

Sparrow nodded once and left. Sebastien sighed, staring as the door shut behind her, and placed his book upon the table. "That was…well, odd."

Simone threw her own book at his head. "Don't be daft. Did you honestly think that poem wouldn't effect her?"

"It's an emotional poem, but it doesn't warrant  _that._ "

Simone let out an exasperated sigh as she returned to her seat across the table from her cousin. "What do we know about why Sparrow fought with you?"

"How is that relevant?"

"Answer, 'Bastien."

"She had a brother fighting. A lover too, perhaps."

"But you'd never seen her before?"

"Never."

"Didn't your friends ever bring their lovers out with them? Why, even when I visited last February, I met quite a few of their ladies."

"Not every man at that barricade was one of my friends, Mona."

"But you know she knows them! You said so yourself! She knew you were the leader, she knew of your group."

"Simone, I don't see a point to this."

Simone sighed again. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Sebastien! The girl scarcely eats and still has been steadily growing since she's been with us. And you told me that she was the same when you were in Paris. As much as you claimed to fight for the poor, I'm fairly certain that none of your friends took a starving girl to bed and, if any of them did, I can promise you they wouldn't let her keep starving!"

"Jesus Christ, Simone! Is this what you do in your spare time? Try and deduce her origins?"

"You would too if you gave a damn!"

"Of course, I give a damn. But if she wants to remain unidentified, who am I to identify her?"

"I'm not trying to give her a name, Sebastien. She is Sparrow. I just…I just want to understand her."

"And how does knowing which of my friends, if any, took her to bed help you understand her?"

Simone rubbed her eyes. "I don't know, 'Bastien. It's not relevant now, I suppose. I just…all I'm saying is that what if she went to the barricade to find her lover who wasn't coming – either because he was preoccupied or didn't love her back? She was less than an inch from death, Sebastien. 'He cometh not…I am aweary, aweary. I would that I were dead.' Didn't you see how much it upset her?"

Though Sebastien shook his head, he knew that his cousin's deductions were not completely wrong. After all, Sparrow had all but told him that she had died for a man who did not love her. The fallen princess and the noble duke. But that was his information, his that he had earned because the girl called Sparrow trusted him. And though he was sure she trusted Simone as well, he knew that Sparrow's story was not his to tell.

"Are you suggesting she tried to die for love?"

"Would she be the first?"

"I think, Simone, that you are trying to romanticize the life of a girl you know next to nothing about. Surely her presence here is entertainment enough for you."

Simone stood. "How dare you? We let her in because we cared for you and we begged her to stay because we care for her, too. She is my friend, Sebastien, not a puppet gifted for my amusement."

"Good," Sebastien said calmly, rising from his seat. "I'm glad we're in agreement."

Without another word, he tucked his book under his arm and left, leaving Simone to fume alone as she bitterly turned through the pages of her book. He quietly made his way to his room and, after quickly changing into his night clothes, lit the lamp beside his bed, ready to read himself to sleep. But before he even read a full page, he was closing the book once more. Sighing to himself, he rose and grabbed his dressing gown, cursing sentiment as he grabbed his lamp and slipped into the hallway, making his way to Sparrow's room.

"Little bird," he whispered, knocking lightly upon the door. There was no response. Against his better judgment, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The room was dark, save for his lamp, and he had to step carefully, knowing full well of the way Sparrow's belongings lay strewn across the floor. As quietly as he could, he made his way to her bed, expecting her to, at any moment, shout at him for coming in without her permission. But she was silent and when he got to her bed, he was surprised to find her fast asleep. And, though the evening's tears had left streaks upon her face, her sleep appeared to be a blissful one. Carefully, he set his lamp upon her nightstand and, gently as he could, pulled the blankets up around her, shielding her from the cold of a midwinter night. Securing the blanket over her shoulders, he gave her a final stare, still bewildered and concerned by her behavior, before retrieving his lamp and, as quietly as he had arrived, departing from her room and returning to his own.

However, though Sebastien had appeared to catch Sparrow in the joy of blissful sleep, the rest of her night did not pass with such serenity. She dreamt that she was blind, that the world around her, though it existed, could not be seen. Looking about, she could see masses on the horizon, masses that could be trees, perhaps, or buildings. But they all blurred together.

She spun about, her heart racing. No matter how far she ran, her surroundings never became any clearer. Closer, yes. But they remained just as blurred as always. The silence was deafening. Though she yelled and though she cried, nothing penetrated her ears. She felt sick. Covering her face in her hands, she dropped down to the ground and curled herself into a ball. And, slowly, she began to hear the sound of her own heartbeat and the rhythm of her own breathing. When at last she removed her hands from her face, she found herself curled up, completely under the blankets of her own bed. Slithering out from under the blankets, she could see through the drapes the first light of dawn creeping into her room.

She surprised herself then, letting out a gasp as she sat straight up in bed, a stab of pain rocketing through her core. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly, willing the discomfort to go away. Biting her lip, she focused her attention on the stripe of pale light stretching from her window to her bed. Despite her misfortunes in life, she had been lucky with her health. Though the lack of food had often caused her stomach to churn and the winter air had often caused her nose to drip, she had been only a child the last time she had been truly bed-ridden with a malady of any sort. It hadn't been all horrible, though. She got to sleep in her parents' big bed and Maman had made soup and fed her as Papa read to her and told her jokes to make her laugh.

But now she had no maman and, as far as she was concerned, no papa either. Just herself. So, clenching her jaw, she forced herself to lie back down and, wrapping the blankets around herself, fought to find a comfortable position. The sun had mostly risen, bathing her room in a pale gold light, before she finally was able to drift back into a fitful sleep.

Though it had been perhaps another three or more hours, when she awoke again it felt as though she hadn't slept at all. She still felt as though she was being stabbed in the stomach and her head still spun. It was only when she forced herself to finally sit up that she felt something warm and sticky between her legs. Confused, she threw the blankets off of her and looked at her lap. Her nightgown was stained red and, jumping from her bed with a gasp, she saw that the sheets below her were stained far worse.

"Fuck," she couldn't help but mutter, staring down at the mess before her. Trembling, she looked down over her shoulder and saw that the back of her night gown was drenched in what she could only assume was her own blood. Over the beating of her heart, she could hear Simone's door open and instantly, Sparrow raced to the door, throwing herself against it just as Simone began to push it open.

"Sparrow," she exclaimed in surprise. "Are you feeling better today?"

Sparrow shook her head and it was only after Simone repeated her name that she realized the other girl couldn't see her.

"I still feel a bit ill, actually," she said all too quickly. "I think perhaps I should go back to bed."

"Well, if you're sick, you ought to let me take a look at you."

"No!" Sparrow pushed harder against the door. "I just mean…I just…I think I just need to sleep."

"Don't be silly! Now, let me in."

Tears in her eyes, Sparrow looked over towards her bed, still covered in those once beautiful white sheets. They had been so soft and she was sure more expensive than anything she had ever before had in her life. And she had gone and ruined them. Before she could stop herself, she burst into tears.

"Sparrow?"

Though she continued to lean against the door, she did not push back when Simone again tried to open it.

"Oh, Sparrow," she sighed upon entering the room.

"I'm sorry," Sparrow gasped out, shutting the door behind her friend. But, to her surprise, Simone only laughed.

"Is this what you're crying on about?"

Sparrow nodded.

"Well, it's not like this hasn't happened to all of us before."

"No," Sparrow whispered, shaking her head. "Not to me."

Simone continued to stare at her and Sparrow's face burnt red. Seeing Simone's concerned look only served to further mortify her and, when another shot of pain piercing through her core, she could not help but to double over. To her surprise, however, Simone immediately rushed towards her and wrapped her in her arms.

"Don't worry," she whispered, pressing a light kiss to the top of Sparrow's head. "It's nothing to get worked up about. Here," she said with a smile, reaching around to grab Sparrow's dressing gown from its hook. Put this on and we'll get you a bath."

"And my bed?" Sparrow asked in a small voice.

"Don't worry about it. Come along, don't look so scared."

Silently, Sparrow pulled on the dressing gown and followed Simone out of her room and quickly down the hall to where the bath was. She waited patiently as Simone had the bath filled and, after discarding the dressing gown, slipped into the large tub, nightgown and all.

"So you've never…" Simone began, sitting on a small seat beside the tub.

"No."

"Are you scared?"

Sparrow only nodded.

"Do you know what this means?"

Sparrow shook her head, wiping her eyes in both fear and embarrassment.

"How old were you when your maman died?"

Sparrow shrugged. "It was only this summer."

"And she never said anything about this?"

Sparrow let out a cold laugh. "She never said anything at all." From the corner of her eye, she could see Simone bite her lip and wondered perhaps if she had yet to deduce anything about Sparrow's past life. Regardless, she said nothing more of the younger girl's mother.

"Well, it's normal."

Again, Sparrow laughed bitterly. "In what world is it normal to wake up in a puddle of your own blood?"

"A woman's world."

Sparrow bit her lip and looked down and the dirty water. "Is it forever?"

Simone quickly shook her head. "Just a few days perhaps. And then again in a month or so."

"Forever?"

"More or less," Simone said apologetically, making a comically annoyed face.

"Why?"

"To have children. I don't know all of the science behind it, but it's for that. You can't have children until you've bled and you stop being able to once you've stopped. When you get it, it's a sign you're not carrying a baby."

"Oh."

Simone nodded. "Marguerite congratulated me when I first...well. So I suppose I should congratulate you."

Sparrow raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Simone tossed her hair and said, with what Sparrow was sure was the most sickeningly sweet voice she could muster, "Because we're  _women_ , dear. We're not people until we can have children."

For the first time that morning, Sparrow smiled. "It sounds awful. For the rest of my life?"

"Assuming you live to a normal age, no. Just a few decades."

"And what if I never plan to have children?"

"Well, it's not like you start bleeding and suddenly become pregnant. You know...you'd have to…with a man…" Simone waved her hand as if to fill in the words she could not find.

Before she could stop herself, Sparrow supplemented her. "Would it scandalize you if I suggested the word you were looking for was 'fuck?'"

Simone let out of shriek of laughter and buried her face in her hand, her skin so red that it nearly blended right into her hair. "Only because you're a child sitting in the bathtub!"

Both girls quickly dissolved into laughter. When they finally calmed, Sparrow said softly, "I mean, I knew that much. That… _that_  could lead to a child." Before she could continue, she let out a pained moan and wrapped her arms around herself. "Will it always hurt so much?"

Simone nodded. "Unfortunately. But nothing that can't be remedied with brandy or wine or something of the sort."

"I want to eat, but I think I might die if I do." Simone only nodded. "Jesus Christ."

"May I ask you something?" Simone said softly after a moment of silence. Sparrow nodded. "Why did you go to the barricade? Surely, you didn't wish to die."

Sparrow looked away, focusing her attention on the way her nightgown bubbled in the water, and shrugged. "I think," she said after a minute. "I think that perhaps I did."

"Were you in love?"

Sparrow looked up quickly, her heart racing. "Why?"

"I'm only curious."

Though she first wanted to exclaim that she had loved as fully and as passionately as one could, Sparrow silently leaned back and shut her eyes. No matter how hard she concentrated, she could scarcely remember what he looked like anymore. She could still speak of him, of course, with his pale and freckled face, the way his hair was almost red in the sun. But she couldn't even place a color on his eyes. Warm and welcoming and caring, that she knew. But there was no color. And, if she were to be honest with herself, she had not thought of him once since New Years. Now that he had returned to her mind, she could only wonder if his marriage brought him the happiness he deserved and, before she could stop it, a voice within her seemed to scream that of course he was happy without her. Just as happy as she now was without him. It seemed as though her world was not limited to his presence. Before she knew it, she was smiling.

"No," she said, opening her eyes.

"Then why are you smiling?"

"Because I thought I was. But I must not have been."

"Is that so?"

"He is gone and I am still here and no worse for it."

"Then why were you there?"

"Because I don't think that he ever loved me, not for a moment. I told myself he did. But, as you said, I'm just a child."

"All people deserve love."

"But not all get it. I've never had anyone love me. But he didn't hate me, so it was the most I was ever loved. I think that, if I still had him close to me, I might still…" She trailed off and looked about, as though the end of her sentence hid somewhere in the walls.

"If you still had him, you might be blind to the world around you?"

Sparrow's head immediately snapped back to face Simone. How on earth could she possibly have worded it so perfectly? She stared wide-eyed, her lips parted in amazed shock. "How?"

"'She only said, 'My life is dreary; He cometh not,' she said.'"

"'She said, 'I am aweary, aweary; I would that I were dead.' Is that what I am, then? Waiting for my love to return to me until the day I die?"

"I think that is up to you."

"So you understand, then, don't you, why I am who I am?"

"Why you are Sparrow, you mean?"

"Were I to allow myself to be who I was," Sparrow said, breathing deeply with each word so as not to let herself burst once more into tears. "I don't think I could be happy. Not ever. There's too much with that life. Too much misery, too much sorrow, too much hatred. That girl, the one who went to the barricade, the one who had to watch all those young men die, that's not me anymore. Not Sparrow. Even the girl who pulled Sebastien from the window was not me. Even once he called me Sparrow, I don't think I was quite her yet. It was the start of it, yes. But part of me was still the girl I used to be and scared of returning to the life I used to live. But now I'm here, now I'm so far away from everything that was. And I think I can be happy."

"Just as long as you stay Sparrow."

"Just as long as I stay Sparrow."

Simone smiled with such affection that Sparrow felt guilty for ever having doubted the love the girl bore for her (however foolish she thought it was). Pushing Sparrow's hair once more out of her face, Simone stood and said, "I'll just go get you some clothes and something to help with..." she gestured to the dirty water, causing Sparrow to blush. "Well, this."

She returned shortly and helped the younger girl dry off and change, whispering her own stories of, as she put it, "feminine mortification" into her ear. By the time she made it downstairs, she was giddy with laughter.

"You look well," Sebastien said as they entered the library. "Are you feeling better?"

Sparrow nodded, her cheeks turning pink at the recollection of the previous night's outburst. "Quite," she told him. "I slept rather poorly, but I feel better now."

"I'm glad," he said with a soft smile. "Come, sit by me. Your usual chair is a bit far from the fire and your hair's still wet. We wouldn't want you ill again."

Sparrow nodded again and walked towards him.

"I'm going to get some tea and, well, whatever I can find in the kitchen. Should I bring back a tray?"

"Thank you, Mona," Sebastien said, making a space for Sparrow to sit beside him. The moment the door shut behind Simone, he turned his attention the girl beside him. "May I be candid, Sparrow?"

She could not help but laugh, despite her discomfort. "Aren't you always?" she teased, trying to find a position that alleviated the pain in her abdomen.

Sebastien shrugged. "I suppose, yes."

"Then why ask permission?"

"Very well, then. Are you lonely?"

Sparrow froze in shock, eyes widening and cheeks growing red. "How could I possibly be lonely, Sebastien? Why, I'm more cared for than I've ever been in my entire life!"

Sebastien shook his head, his face solemn. "I didn't ask you if you were well cared for, little bird. I asked if you were lonely."

"I spend near every waking moment with people. Loneliness in this life would be absurd."

"Have you lived in a big city your whole life?"

Sparrow raised her eyebrow at the sudden change in Sebastien's line of questioning. "Nearly. Before Paris, we lived in a small town not too far from the city. But it had people."

"So you have spent, no doubt, much of your life in crowds?"

"Yes, I'd even have to run off just to get a moment of solitude."

"And that's where your confusion lies."

Sparrow shook her head and laughed. "My only confusion lies in you."

"Solitude is not loneliness. You can be lonely without being alone."

"I know that."

"So, tell me honestly, have you ever been in a room full of people and felt completely alone?"

Sparrow thought for a moment. "Yes."

"Then I ask you again: are you lonely?"

Sparrow was silent for a long while. Lonely was, perhaps, not the word she would have picked. Yes, there was an odd sense of isolation, living outside of a town rather than in one. With the exception of a lone seamstress, she had yet to meet anyone. Monsieur Mathieu had even chided his daughter for not introducing Sparrow to any of her friends and using the girl as an excuse to avoid socializing. At the time, Sparrow had not cared.

"I have more intimate friends now than I've ever had in my entire life," she said carefully. "But I would be lying if I said I did not miss the chaos of city life."

Sebastien nodded, looking sadly at his lap, and Sparrow feared that she had perhaps offended him with her confession. But, to her surprise, he then looked up at her and, taking her hand with a small smile, said, "Me too. And the people Simone knows here, the people when you go into town, they know me. I've spent so much time here over the years that even those who I've never met know me as my uncle's nephew. But you they've never met. So tomorrow, you and Simone will go into town. And she'll introduce you to everyone you pass. And you'll probably think they are all idiots, but you can revel in the fact that you're far cleverer than they are. And you will come home and report it all back to me and I shall live vicariously through your words."

"And what about you?" she asked, noticing the sadness in his eyes, so nearly hidden by his smile. "You say you will live vicariously through me, but no one can live alone, Sebastien."

He squeezed her hand. "I am not alone. I thrive in solitude. When I need company, I have you. And Simone. What I need now is time for reflection. To see where I went wrong, to see if I should begin again. I need to decide how I should live."

"You're not the only lost one, Sebastien."

"Do you need to know how to live?"

"Of course. So I, too, am looking for it."

To her surprise, Sebastien laughed. "I can tell you, little bird. You need to be happy. You need to see what life suits you. You may have started afresh in life more often than I have, but I am still much older and have seen different things. How can you know what you want if you don't let yourself be happy?"

Sparrow rolled her eyes, far too used to Sebastien's privilege playing such a roll in their differences. True, he may have seen more than she had, but what she saw, she was sure, taught her so much more. Though she smiled and squeezed back his hand, she said, "You're being condescending, Sebastien. Living a different life does not make you wiser to the world than I am. If anything, I know more than you."

Sebastien's cheeks reddened. "I do not mean to be condescending and I apologize. I only mean that you cannot decide how to live if you haven't tasted all your options."

"So you want me to become a little socialite?"

"I want you to meet all the people you can. I want you to choose who you surround yourself with and who you remove from your life. I'd rather you spend all your time with a single person that makes you happy than a thousand people who upset you."

"I am happy with you. I am happy here with you and Simone and Monsieur Mathieu. Happier than I believe I've ever been."

"And what if there's someone out there who makes you happier?"

"And what if there's not?"

"Then you will appreciate us all the more."

Both Sebastien and Sparrow looked immediately at the door. Neither had heard Simone reenter. She smiled at them, a tray in her hands, and walked over, kicking the door shut behind her.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Sparrow," she said, setting down the tray. "He's right. I'm afraid I've been a terrible hostess."

"Oh, don't say that!" Sparrow could feel her face growing hot with embarrassment. How on earth could Simone view herself as a bad hostess? She was nothing but kind and welcoming, so much so that Sparrow had grown in only two months to see her as a sister. If she discovered that she had even for a moment demonstrated anything less than the most sincere gratitude, she was sure she would certainly die of embarrassment.

"No, I have. I've kept you shut up in here, all to myself. Why, I struggle to even share you with 'Bastien, though that's only because if I don't dominate your time, I fear he will."

Sebastien laughed. "And what would be wrong with that?"

"Impressionable young women ought to be corrupted with things more fun than political misery."

Sebastien merely shrugged and once again squeezed Sparrow's hand before finally releasing it.

"So," Simone continued, sitting on Sparrow's other side, "tomorrow we'll go into town. We'll go to the book shop and the hatter and I'll tell you who's tolerable and who's not."

"And who will you tell them I am? The bird that flew in through an open window?"

Simone brought her hand to her chin and seemed to think about it for a moment. "My father used to be a professor, you know. He stopped shortly after Maman died, but he's always kept in touch with his colleagues. We'll say that your papa is a professor in Paris and has sent you out of the city following the uprisings."

Sebastien shook her head. "Too many people here know people in Paris. A professor is a tough story. Especially with the people you know. They're all such gossips, Mona, they'd be looking up every professor in Paris quickly as they could."

"Surely there's far too many," Sparrow said.

"They'd still try. Simply say that you're a friend Mona made last time she was in Paris. You grew tired of city life and came to stay with her."

Sparrow nodded at first, but then looked down, feeling the tears well in her eyes. All the lies, all the deceit, it felt as though she was once more the other girl. For, though Sparrow's whole existence was in itself a lie, the girl called Sparrow was true to her new name. But, of course, she realized sadly, her name was not even a name at all. "No one will believe that I am called Sparrow," she whispered.

Once more, Sebastien took both of her hands in his own. When he spoke, Sparrow was surprised by the earnestness in his voice. "You will always be Sparrow. As long as you wish to be Sparrow, you will be. If you want to give people a different name, you may. But it does not change who you are."

Before she could stop herself, Sparrow flung her arms around Sebastien's neck. Though he tensed at first, she soon relaxed and held her tight.

"Thank you," she whispered. After a moment, she released him. "I will always be your Sparrow," she said. "It is my name and I have no other."

Simone hit her lightly on the back of the head. Sparrow spun to face her, having almost forgotten she was in the room. "And what of Mariana?" Simone asked teasingly.

Sparrow tilted her head back and laughed. With a grin, she gestured towards where the sun flooded in through the window. "But the day is lovely," was all she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the next chapter won't take me too long. Unfortunately, I do start classes tomorrow, so life's about to get busy, but I will make time no matter what.


	11. Little Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! I have a very writing-heavy semester right now, so most of my writing time is for homework. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long.  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's still reading, you all make my day!  
> And thank you, Mel, for being such a wonderful beta!
> 
> Disclaimer: Les Mis isn't mine

"Mademoiselle!"

Sparrow closed her eyes and smiled, trusting Simone, who had looped their arms together, to lead her through the busy streets. True, they were nowhere near as busy as the Parisian streets she once knew, but they were a welcomed change to the isolation of her new home. There were shouts and laughter and mindless ramblings. There were absent-minded bumps and rushed apologies as people weaved their way through the throng. Already that morning she had discussed literature with a bookseller who called her a "clever little lady" and had joined Simone in trying on the most ridiculous bonnets they could find at the hatters.

"Mademoiselle!"

Simone tugged on her arm. "Where to next?"

Sparrow opened her eyes. "A bakery, perhaps? We haven't eaten since morning."

"Mademoiselle Enjolras!"

Simone sighed before quickly turning around. "Monsieur Girard!" she exclaimed, a genuine sense of surprise creeping into her tone. "How are you?"

Sparrow, who had been spun around by Simone, looked up at the stranger. He was tall, nearly as tall as Sebastien, with dark hair and dark eyes, which, to Sparrow's surprise, were focused on her.

"I'm well, thank you," he replied, still focused on Sparrow. "I believe your friend dropped this. Mademoiselle." He gave a polite half-bow and held out a dark green glove that she had never seen before.

Smiling, she shook her head. "I'm afraid you're mistaken." She held up both hands and wiggled her fingers, showing off her new brown gloves.

The boy (when he smiled, he was certainly more a boy than a man) flushed and shoved the gloves into his pocket. "I, um, they must be someone else's then." He laughed awkwardly. "I don't think we've met before."

Sparrow shook her head again. "No, I don't suppose we have." To her confusion, he laughed again.

"My name is Xavier," he told her, extending his hand. "Xavier Girard."

"It's lovely to meet you," she said, shaking his hand firmly. Without warning, he kissed it.

"And you?"

"I'm Sparrow."

He laughed again, still holding her hand. "I can see that. I pinned you for a bird the moment I saw you! But I would prefer your name."

She smiled and withdrew her hand. "Mademoiselle Sparrow, if you need something more formal."

"No true name?"

Simone took the opportunity to step forward, looping her arm with Sparrow's. "You're being awfully forward, monsieur. You asked for her name and she gave it."

He blushed again. "My apologies, mademoiselles." He paused for a moment before pulling the glove once more from his pocket. "Are you sure, though, Mademoiselle Sparrow, that this is not yours?"

"There's no need for apologies, Monsieur Girard," she told him kindly. "Mademoiselle Enjolras is fiercely protective of me."

"Yes, well, rightfully…I mean to say that you ought to be or…or rather that her protection…" He blushed more furiously than Sparrow had known possible and awkwardly mumbled, "It would be a shame, mademoiselle, if any preventable harm befell you."

Simone grabbed Sparrow's arm. "Well, then we ought to be on our way! Darling might faint without a bite. Horribly skinny little thing –"

"Mona!" Sparrow hissed. "Good day, Monsieur Girard," she managed to get out before Simone pulled her away. His own farewell was swallowed as she was engulfed by the crowd. "That was rude. He was just being friendly."

Simone shrugged. "He was being forward and not even being good at it. It was a bit pathetic."

"You were being unkind, Simone. Even I was a bit intimidated."

Simone shook her head and led Sparrow down the street and into a bakery. With her normal friendliness, she ordered some sweet breads and, on her way out, not so accidentally dropped a coin at where the baker's daughter sat playing with her doll. Sparrow smiled and waved at the girl, but the moment they stepped back outside, though Simone held out the warm bag to her, Sparrow only frowned.

"Why, bird girl! Are you cross with me?"

"You ought to apologize next time you see him."

To Sparrow's surprise, Simone threw back her head and laughed. And, for an odd moment, Sparrow felt as though she were more the object of her laughter than was Xavier Girard.

"Sparrow, he was flirting with you!"

Sparrow flushed and bowed her head. Now that Simone said it, it felt embarrassingly obvious. Of course he was flirting with her. He had been so kind and so flustered. Why, he must have been desperate to talk with her – of course he knew that the glove was not hers. And yet, she found that she didn't care. If anything, though it made her cheeks burn, it made her smile. Someone found her worth flirting with. She hugged herself. "And?"

Simone stared for a moment, her eyes widening. "And?" she repeated back.

"He seemed nice – I've never heard you complain about him." For Simone, despite her sweetness, seemed to have a complaint for every person she knew.

"Just because I don't complain about someone doesn't mean I think they're a proper suitor for you, bird girl," she said with a laugh.

Sparrow bit her lip. She had been so excited for Simone to bring her into the town. She loved Simone, truly, and Sebastien and Monsieur Mathieu, as well. But she needed more. She needed people to talk to, people to talk about. She needed variation. She was happy, so happy with the steadiness of her life now – it was better than her life had ever been. But if she were the bird girl Simone claimed she was, she could not live all her life in one place.

"I don't mind being flirted with, Simone," she said before she could stopped herself.

Simone's lips parted slightly and, for a moment, Sparrow was worried she was about to be scolded. Instead, however, Simone leaned forward and, laughing, kissed Sparrow's cheek. "Well, everyone likes to be flirted with sometimes, bird girl! Now, come along. Let's get you a new scarf. I'm thinking green, no?" She hooked her arm through Sparrow's and quickly pulled her down the street. But Sparrow shook her head and pulled away her arm, almost feeling guilty for the childish pout she knew graced her face.

"Then why did you frighten him off?"

Simone's hands dropped to her sides. "Xavier's a sweet boy, bird girl. But you could do so much better!"

Sparrow couldn't help it. She began to laugh. She laughed so hard, she clutched her sides and people began to stare. Simone grabber her by the elbow and pulled her into an alleyway.

"What in God's name is so funny?"

Sparrow shook her head, shaking. "How could I possibly do better? I don't know anyone!"

"You know people." Simone nudged her arm with a wink.

"Name one bachelor – or any man for that matter – that I know!"

"Sebastien."

Sparrow froze. She stared at Simone, her head cocked slightly left, as though Simone had said a word so foreign that no Frenchwoman could ever understand. "Sorry?"

Simone grinned as though she had just won some complicated game of sorts. "You know Sebastien."

Once again, Sparrow burst into laughter. "Sebastien?" she gasped out. "Sebastien, your cousin Sebastien?" She doubled forward, clutching her sides. The notion was ludicrous!  _Her and Sebastien_? Sebastien was her dearest friend, her closest companion. She could never risk his friendship, even if he could remotely consider her as anything other than a friend. The idea of them ever being together, well, she was sure it was an idea that would never come to term. And nor would she want it to. Even if she could see herself ever harboring any romantic sentiment for him whatsoever, any action on it, she was sure, would end miserably. Gasping for breath, her laughter dissolved into tears. She reached forward for Simone's hand, clasping it tightly as she dropped to the ground.

"Sparrow!" Simone exclaimed, kneeling down to support her.

Sparrow just shook her head, clutching at Simone and burying her face into her chest. "Please tell me you're only joking," she whispered, mortified by the thickness of her voice. "Please, Mona, tell me you're only joking."

Simone rubbed small circles onto her back, kissing the top of her head lightly. "Does that frighten you so much, Sparrow? That I've never seen my cousin express such admiration or affection for any person as he does to you?"

"Please!"

"Why does that upset you?"

"Sebastien is my friend, Simone. A friend like I have never had. Never in my whole life. And so he mustn't ever love me. Not ever." She burst into tears. "Please, Simone, please don't ever let him love me."

"Hush, hush," Simone whispered, hugging her tighter. "So what if he ends up loving you, now or later? You may still be loved by a friend. I suppose it would make love all the better, wouldn't it?"

Sparrow shook her head. "Nobody who's ever loved me has kept loving me."

"What on Earth does that mean?"

"Everyone who's ever loved me hates me."

"Oh, that's not true!"

"It is! Do you know what my father did last he saw me?" She clutched at Simone, unable to stop herself from spilling out the words that had been so long boiling inside her. "He called me 'bitch!' Did Sebastien tell you that there was a boy once I might have married? That he threatened to kill me? He held out his knife and my father did  _nothing_!" She was shaking with her sobs and, no matter how tight Simone held her, the shaking would not cease. "He did nothing, Mona. He stood there and said nothing! It was someone else entirely who suggested that perhaps they shouldn't kill me. But they used to love me once, the both of them! Don't you see?" she whispered, pulling away and wiping the tears from her eyes. "People who love me never keep loving me."

Simone cupped Sparrow's face in her hands. "Do you doubt me then? You're my sister, Sparrow, and no one can ever tell me otherwise. And I will always love you as such."

Sparrow breath steadied, calmed by the kindness of Simone's words, by the sincerity in her eyes. Sparrow sniffed and forced a smile. "You're my sister as I'm yours," she told Simone. "And I will love you always."

"And Sebastien."

Sparrow laughed. "Sebastien is no sister to me."

"But do you love him?"

For a long while, Sparrow didn't answer. She sat there, kneeling in that fortunately empty alleyway, and stared at perhaps something only she could see. At first, the answer seemed so obvious. Of course she loved Sebastien. He was her dearest friend, her closest companion in this world. Each day she spent with him, she found herself falling deeper and deeper into his mind and, just as often, saw him looking into the depths of hers. They could talk for hours without uttering a single word. He was her best friend and she loved him. But that wasn't what Simone meant and Sparrow knew it. She had thought she had been in love before. But she thought of that so seldom and missed him so little, she grew more certain each day that no, she did not love him. But Sebastien…Sebastien she would never tire of. And, though he could make her angrier than anyone else in the world, she would always be drawn to him.

But her love was poison and to love anyone meant to be hated in turn. So with a shaky breath, she shook her head and stood. "I think," she said, "You are much mistaken about my relationship with your cousin. I love him dearly, but-"

"Not in the way I think you do."

"No, I'm afraid. Nor do I think he would feel that way for me." She sighed and, bending over, brushed the snow from her knees. "I think I shall get a scarf another day. I'm quite tired."

Simone nodded and offered her arm.

* * *

Sebastien had retired to the library as soon as the girls left that morning. For the first time since his arrival at his uncle's home, the house was silent.

"No chirping bird," Simone had laughed when she pushed Sparrow out the door. He had smiled at Sparrow, wished her a nice day, and went into the library. Then, for reasons he could not explain, he pulled from the shelf,  _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_. He had read it before, both for his own sake and later, sitting with Sparrow who was not yet Sparrow, switching reader page by page, setting down with equal frequency to discuss it. He had asked Simone one night shortly after their arrival, after Sparrow had gone to bed, why they had never discussed Wollstonecraft. His cousin had shrugged and said, "Because when you come here, your mind needs a break from all that. School is for politics and I make you slow down. We can talk about her now, though, if you'd like."

But he had shook his head and smiled. No, there were many other works he could discuss with his cousin, tens of hundreds of essays and thoughts. But Wollstonecraft, she was Sparrow's. It was wrong, he knew, to limit talk of a thinker to only one mind. It was something special, feeling at times like a secret between Sparrow and himself. He sat there in the library, all day, flipping through the book, smiling softly to himself as he remember the late nights of Paris, sitting in his room with that odd, nameless child. She was such a peculiar thing, his Sparrow. She danced through the halls, more a fairy than a girl.

He had spent so long thinking of women as less then men. It was what his whole life had taught him. Even Simone, the exception of her sex, stayed home when Sebastien started at university. It said nothing of her own intellect, but that was how things were. As a rule, women were the frailer and softer sex. He had been told this his whole life. Even Simone seemed to believe it, agreeing with her cousin that she seemed to be an exception to the frailty of her sex. On countless occasions, he had heard her complain about the silly nature of the various girls she knew. It wasn't until Sparrow that he had even considered the notion that all he knew was wrong. Each day it grew more and more clear that Sparrow was not just a girl with a man's mind. The wisdom she possessed was hers and hers alone. She did not have the mind of a man, for he was beginning to doubt such a thing existed. Had he missed so much knowledge in his refusal to listen to the words of women? Perhaps he had been wrong, then, to criticize his friends for wasting away their days with their mistresses. Perhaps these women he had neglected to know had satisfied more for their friends than their lust.

Had these young women been to his friends as Sparrow was now to him? Perhaps they had been such dear companions to his friends as he found Sparrow now. Perhaps they had sat in bed with their lovers, talking away the night without ever a moment of boredom, just as Sebastien did now with Sparrow, sitting in the library long after Simone went to bed, when he learned just as much from her as he hoped she learned from him.

Those moments were, perhaps, the best he had had since leaving Paris, if not among the best of his whole life. There were nights when they sat up talking until the first rays of light leaked in through the library window. She would lean against his shoulder and shut her eyes and murmur, "I suppose it is time to sleep." He would look down at the way her body would curl so perfectly against his own and wonder if the sun would hold its position, just put off rising for a few more minutes. Shutting his eyes now, he could almost feel her against him, almost smell her essence. It calmed him.

"You decided not to join the girls today?" He looked up as his uncle entered the room.

"I thought perhaps they could use a day for just the two of them," he replied. "Besides, I had some thinking of my own to do."

Mathieu sat in the large armchair, in Sparrow's armchair. "Surely not so much thinking, though. I assume you've read Wollstonecraft before."

Sebastien shrugged. "I'm examining her work in a different light." He looked back down at his book.

"Any particular light?"

He shut the book and stared at his uncle. Perhaps, he thought, if he just answered his uncle's questions, Mathieu would retreat and Sebastien would be free to go back to his thoughts. "I'm allowing myself to be more accepting of Wollstonecraft's critique of Rousseau."

"Ah. So in Mademoiselle Sparrow's light."

"Not necessarily," Sebastien replied, his words coming out more quickly than he intended.

"Oh?"

"N-no," he, for perhaps the first time in his life, stammered. "I suppose that any...any intelligent woman would possess the same – or similar – train of thought."

"Sebastien." Mathieu moved to sit down on the couch across from him. "Sebastien, I know you better than a great many people. Perhaps even better than your own parents."

"I don't doubt it, Uncle."

"I'll be blunt then: my greatest disappointment in you has been that you seem to be of the unfortunate breed of man who hates women-"

"That is prepos-"

"Do not interrupt me Sebastien." His uncle's face, though not angry, was stern, his mouth set straight. "With the exception of Simone, you have spent your entire life seeing women as pointless, as bodies rather than minds and thus of something of no use to you."

Sebastien bowed his head, ashamed at the truth in Mathieu's words.

"So I must ask you, my boy, before you dare hurt anyone: is our Sparrow just another exception to your disdain of the entirety of the female sex?"

Perhaps two or so months ago, Sebastien would have responded yes. It would have been painfully obvious to him that Sparrow was, indeed, in possession of a mind superior to what her sex decreed. But now he shook his head and vocalized what he had discovered over the last few months. "Sparrow's mind is superior, Uncle, but not simply among women. She is, in many ways, as uneducated as a person can be, but, for that, I fear what her mind would be like had she been afforded throughout her life all that I have had in mine."

Mathieu smiled and patted his nephew's hand. "I hear you sometimes, you know. When you fetch her after dark because you have not finished with her yet."

Sebastien flushed. "I apologize for waking you."

"Nonsense, nonsense. I quite enjoy knowing that you are finding life happy." He sighed and folded his hands in his own lap. "I suppose you have very little memory of your aunt?"

Sebastien shook his head, unsure of her relevance to the conversation.

"Elizabeth and I…we were very much like you, I think. We used to find ways to meet in the dead of night. Never for all those things people warn you about, not for the things that young people are supposed to do. But simply to talk. My Elizabeth…she had ways of explaining the world, ways that lacked all semblance of rationality and, yet, made everything so clear. I could listen to her for hours. We're told our whole lives that, as men, we are the wise ones. That it is our duty to enlighten the female mind, or at least attempt to. But I think our teachers forget, then, the very crucial fact that women are, indeed, people. And that as people, they will always have just as much to teach as they have to learn." Mathieu then stood and nodded before heading for the door. "Oh, my Elizabeth," he said with a laugh. "I loved her so very, very much. I do hope you enjoy your reading, Sebastien. Good day." And then he was gone.

Sebastien stared at the door behind him, trying to make sense of his uncle's words. He remembered his childhood summers, when he would come to study with his uncle and to amuse Simone. His uncle used to joke that nothing would ever escape him. That anything Sebastien did, Mathieu would know about. "I hear all," he could remember his uncle saying. "Even your innermost thoughts – I hear them." For a childish moment, he wondered if those words were still true. If as he sat there, his mind straying from Wollstonecraft to Sparrow, his uncle knew every last thought. Part of him almost wished that this foolishness were true. He could not imagine himself speaking the words that currently raced through his mind to his uncle. How would he even begin? This was the sort of question suited for friends, not an uncle. But he had no friends now, they were lost. He had never listened when they spoke of such trivial matters of their lovers. He had no knowledge of what their relationships were like, what they involved. He could not ask what they saw in a woman that made them know they wanted her. The only thing he had was his uncle's words. That his Aunt Elizabeth had sat with his uncle, reading far into the night, just as Sebastien did with Sparrow. That his uncle would never grow bored of listening to his aunt talk, just as he did Sparrow. And that he had loved her very much.

Just as he was beginning to realize he did Sparrow. Somewhere along the way from death to life, he had fallen in love with his little bird.

Sebastien brought his hands to his face, the book lying forgotten upon his lap. He had promised himself, years and years ago, that he would only ever have one passion in his life and that passion would be his country. He never expected that some girl, a girl who he scarcely knew, would change all of that. He knew nothing of love, of what it meant. And yet there was never a thing he wanted to do that was not with Sparrow. He was never happier than when he was with her and, however far he thought into the future, whatever he saw himself doing with what remained of his life, she was always there. He could talk with her and her alone for every moment of the rest of his life and never grow bored. And when he closed his eyes, he could feel the way she curled up against him as he read aloud into the night.

He sat there, breathing deeply into his hands until he heard the door open. And when he looked up, she was there.

"Sparrow," he said, standing up perhaps too quickly. "When did you get home?"

To his surprise, Sparrow did not approach him. She stood in the doorway, her fingers fluttering upon her skirt. She shook her head, her cheeks still flushed from the cold. "Only just," she told him. He was taken aback by how hoarse her voice was.

"Are you well?"

Sparrow looked away. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked quietly.

Sebastien looked towards the window. The sun was low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the horizon. "It's getting late, I'm sure supper will be soon."

"Yes, of course. I suppose it's a bit cold for a walk anyway." She turned to go, but he shook his head and advanced towards her, reaching for her wrist.

"We have some time," he said smiling. "And I don't think anyone would mind if we were a moment late."

Sparrow nodded and, to Sebastien's pleasure, accepted his arm when he offered it. He led her to the door and grabbed his own hat from the hook, beckoning Sparrow towards him.

"Wear this," he told her. "It will keep you far warmer than that silly bonnet." Sparrow laughed as he put it on her head, teasingly pulling it past her eyes. Before he could stop himself, he brushed back her hair from her face, pushing it behind her shoulders and watching the way it nearly glowed in the light streaming through the window. "I sometimes forget your hair is red."

To his surprise, Sparrow turned away. "A bit, yes," she muttered, reaching for the door. "Shall we?"

This time, she did not take his arm when he offered it. Rather, she walked ahead of him, looking down at her feet. Every few minutes, he could see her pull her coat tighter around herself. After several minutes had passed, as they approached the edge of the woods where Sparrow had learnt to skate, he could no longer help it. Increasing his stride, he caught up with her, grabbing her by the elbow and stepping in front of her. Her eyes were red and her nose ran. She immediately blushed, seemingly ashamed of having been caught in such a state. He sighed and pulled at her elbow. To his relief, she nodded once before leaning into his embrace.

"What's wrong, little bird?" he asked softly, pulling back and placing a hand on her cheek. "Tell me what happened."

She let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Nothing," she said, shaking her head. "It was a lovely day. I – I met people. I bought a book – a novel. Simone said it was by Mary Wollstonecraft's daughter. She said she had a copy, but we decided I could have one of my own." She smiled, tears still dripping off her nose. She shook her head suddenly and pressed herself once more against him, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close.

He kissed the top of her head. "If it was so lovely, little bird," he whispered into her hair, "then why are you crying?"

"You're my friend, aren't you?" she murmured into his chest.

"I'm sorry?"

"We're friends, Sebastien, right?"

He couldn't help but laugh as he squeezed her tight. She was such an odd thing, his little bird. Always so scared of the world forgetting her and leaving her behind. "Of course we're friends, little bird. Whatever made you think we weren't?"

"You're my best friend, Sebastien. Truly. My best friend in this entire world and I love you more than anything."

He froze, his fingers tangled in the ends of her hair. He wondered if she could hear his heart racing. With a deep breath, he whispered into the air, "And I love you."

Sparrow nodded against him and pulled back. He was surprised by the intensity with which she glared at him. It was as though the very sight of him terrified her just as much as it pleased her. "Then promise me," she said hoarsely.

He nodded. "I promise."

She shook her head with a little laugh and he cocked his head in confusion. What on earth could possibly amuse her about the promise of his love? It was not as though he had said it with no reasoning. He had not spat it out over his morning coffee or a late night discussion. No. She had said to him, "I love you more than anything," and he had told her that he loved her, too.

But now she just brought a hand to his cheek, a sad smile upon her lips. "How silly you are, my 'Bastien," she said with a melancholy laugh. "Always so eager to please. You truly are my friend to be so quick to promise me mysteries."

He struggled not to lean into the hand that cupped his cheek. When he spoke, he was taken aback by the hoarseness of his own voice. "Then what is it you want me to promise you?"

Sparrow pulled away to look him in the eye. "Promise me that, in this moment, you are my friend."

"I promise."

"Promise that me that I am your friend."

"My dearest friend."

Sparrow smiled. "Promise me," she said softly, her eyes dropping to the ground, "that, as your dearest friend…Promise that you love me."

It took all his strength not to reach out for her hand, not to show her that he was there and that he would love her always. "I promise," was all he said.

Sparrow nodded, her eyes still downcast. "And promise me," she choked out, for she had once again began to cry. The struggle not to embrace her grew all the harder. "Promise me," she began again, "that you will never love me any more or any less then you do now, in this moment, as your dearest friend." Taking in a deep breath, she looked up at him, her gaze firm. Her determination to hear his vow was almost frightening. "Promise me that I am your dearest friend and you shall always love me as such."

He said nothing. He stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms, praying that the trembling of her body concealed that of his own. How strange it was, that her body trembled with such passion, such strength, as his own trembled with the fear and weakness that he attributed to his love. He was no fool. He knew exactly what she was asking of him. She wanted an affirmation that he would never love her as he had only just realized he did. But that didn't mean she wasn't still his friend. She would always be his friend. As much as he loved her, Sparrow would always be his friend. He could live his life, if not happy then, content with her friendship. He sighed and buried his face into her hair, breathing her in and wishing that he could go back to the man he used to be. He wished he could be so cold as to not want her. He wished he could laugh off love as something for fools. He hoped, perhaps, that in the future he could echo Sparrow's own words, "I thought I was in love once," and grow to realize that it was all just foolish infatuation.

But in this moment, he loved her. He loved her with all that he was and what felt like all that he ever could be. For the first time, he recognized what he had often scolded his friends for talking about before, that cold, miserable feeling of knowing that the person you loved would never love you in return.

He could live with it. He could promise her his friendship and she would never be any wiser. And, perhaps, his lie would deceive even himself. Perhaps he would grow to stop loving her, or rather stop loving her as he did. The part of him that saw her as his best friend and his dearest companion, that part could promise his eternal love. The rest, he was sure, would disappear in time.

He stepped back, releasing Sparrow from his embrace. He cupped her face in his hands and bent down, forcing her to look straight into his eyes. "You are my friend, Sparrow, my best and dearest friend. And I will always love you as such. Never any more or any less than I do right now. I promise."

Sparrow laughed, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. "I think I would die before ever losing your friendship."

His cheek burnt where her lips had touched it and he forced himself to smile. "You need not worry of that, little bird. I have no intention of going anywhere."

"Good." She smiled and took his hand, turning around and leading him back to the house. "It's horribly cold, isn't it?"

He nodded wordlessly. It made no sense. She had been so upset before, but so quickly remedied by the promise of his unwavering friendship and that he would never love her too much or too little. It was such a random terror. Before, when they had been in Paris, it had not been uncommon for Sparrow to doubt his friendship. Even their first few weeks with his family, he could still tell she felt like an outsider. But things had changed. He had been so sure that she now knew of his affection for her. And yet she had seemed so scared of the idea of him loving her more than she wanted him to.

It had been so long since he had felt the urge to cry. He resisted.

He allowed Sparrow to lead him into the house. He stood still as she brushed the snow from his hair, laughing as some stuck to his nose.

"I am glad you are my friend, Sebastien," she said, grinning as she brushed it off. "I am lucky to have you."

He stared at her. He had never before felt the desire to kiss anyone before. But she stood there before him with that smile and it was all he could do to resist kissing the perfect pinkness of her lips. But no. She had made herself clear. He was her friend and he could not love her any more than a friend should. She did not want to be kissed and, at once, the thought of kissing her repulsed him. He could almost see the disgust that would paint her face, the betrayal that would fill her eyes should he try to kiss her. He was disgusted at himself for even considering such an action.

Instead, he smiled and, beckoning her to turn around, helped her remove her coat. "No luckier than I am to have you."

She grinned and at once his suffering no longer seemed to matter. For if he could make her smile, then, he was sure, all was right in the world.


	12. Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am beyond sorry for how long this chapter took to update. November and the beginning of December were just killer for me at school. Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter. You honestly make my day.
> 
> And, of course, thank you, Mel, for being the best beta I could ask for a dealing with all my nagging and shit.

Sparrow retired early that night. She had be quiet all through dinner and, when Mathieu went into his study and Sebastien and Simone headed for the library, Sparrow kissed Simone's cheek and apologized for her fatigue. She then departed with scarcely a glance toward Sebastien. Before he had time to open his mouth and utter "Goodnight," she was gone.

"Tell me what happened today," he demanded the second they were in the library, shutting the door behind him.

Simone sat down in her usual seat, her book waiting on the table from the previous night. "We walked, we both got books, Sparrow cried, we came home."

Sebastien stared at his cousin in disbelief.  _Sparrow cried_? How could she say it so carelessly? He glared down at his cousin. "What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"What upset her?"

Simone narrowed her eyes and glared right back at him. "Sit down, 'Bastien. You're being awfully cross."

Though Sebastien obeyed, he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. How dare she talk of Sparrow so heartlessly? "She was supposed to have a nice day, Simone. You were taking her out to enjoy herself. What the Hell happened?"

Simone's eyes flickered across the room before returning to her cousin. She sucked in her lip before saying, "She's Sparrow, Sebastien. I love her more than the world. She's a wonderful person and I adore her. But she's been through trauma unimaginable. There's little that  _doesn't_  make her cry." She opened her book and began to read.

Slowly, Sebastien sat down beside her, watching the rapid flutters of her eyes across the page.

"You're lying," he said after a moment.

"I'm not," she snapped back, her eyes not leaving the page.

He grabbed the book from her hands. "You are." He took in a deep breath. He knew he shouldn't be so angry. "Just tell me what happened."

"It was nothing, 'Bastien."

"Simone, please."

"Bastien!" Simone let out an exasperated sigh and bent her head back. "Why? She's feeling better now and you'll only get angry."

"Why would I get angry at her for being sad?"

Simone rolled her eyes. "Why can't she have things in life you don't know about?"

Sebastien took her hand. "'Mona, please."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, 'Bastien. A boy flirted with her and I scared him off. Happy?"

Sebastien stared, tilting his head as though he could not fully understand her words. They, after all, could not be true. Sparrow would have told him.

"Don't look so terrified," Simone said with a sigh. "I told you a scared him off, didn't I?"

"Why?" he found himself asking.

Simone laughed. "What do you mean 'why?' For you, silly."

Sebastien stood and walked around the table, sitting on the other couch. "Sparrow's a grown woman. She's free to flirt and be flirted with at her own will."

"Don't be daft. Papa and I were talking about you only last night."

Sebastien looked away, embarrassed to, for once, be the topic of gossip, even if it was only in his own house. It was best, he decided, if he were to feign ignorance, to give his cousin no more reason to believe he felt any more for Sparrow than one statue to another. "And what exactly did you talk about?"

Simone grinned, her eyes narrowing. "Don't play dumb," she teased.

"Very well, you talked about me. Elaborate."

"You hate people, 'Bas."

Sebastien continued to glare. He knew shouldn't be surprised by how horribly frustrating Simone was - he had been dealing with her for eighteen years, nearly nineteen. "I'm well aware," he said coolly, forcing a tight smile. "You and my uncle discussing my cynicism is nothing new."

"You don't hate Sparrow."

"That's been established."

"Do you love her?"

Sebastien lay down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling in a desperate attempt not to look at his cousin. "That's a horribly stupid question."

"I find it rather simple, to be honest. Either you love her or you don't."

"What does it matter to you?"

"Don't. Play. Dumb."

Though her voice was soft, the way she enunciated each word caused his heart to race. In the simplest of terms, it was unfair. In only a day, he had discovered that, against his better judgment, against his will, and against all his expectations, he had fallen in love. He had fallen in love foolishly, quickly, and unexpectedly, as though he were no more than a silly hero in a romance novel. But he was no hero, that he knew, and even if he were, he was not the lead character in a romance. If he were, perhaps Sparrow would love him back, but on this same day, he learned that she did not. He was not in the mood now to be badgered by Simone. He did not need to admit his love for Sparrow — nor her determination to be his friend and nothing else. Tonight was not the night for Simone's teasing.

"What do you want, Simone?" he asked at last.

"I want you to be a man."

Sebastien snorted. "What does that even mean?"

"Are you even capable of feeling?"

His neck snapped to face her. "What in God's name does that even mean?"

"I think Sparrow makes you happy."

"Yes," he snapped. "I've heard it said that that is what friends should do."

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"You'll tell me anyway."

"I think that, one day, she's going to fall in love with you."

Sebastien turned back to the ceiling. "What sort of game are you playing at, 'Mona?" he snapped. "Just mind your own business."

"Does that scare you, Sebastien?" There was a rustling of skirts as Simone moved towards him, her shadow growing across his chest. "The idea that she could one day love you?"

Sebastien shut his eyes and willed her to go away.

"Or does it scare you more that she doesn't love you now?"

"God dammit, Simone!" he roared, sitting up with such speed that Simone stumbled backwards to avoid a collision. "Do you even hear yourself? Do you ever take a moment to consider that my life is not yours to toy with? That you are no more than a meddlesome little girl without decency?" He glared at her, face red and chest heaving. "So forgive me, little cousin, if I cannot indulge your every whim. Find someone new to vicariously live through."

Simone glared right back, her arms crossed over her chest. For a moment, he wondered if he had gone too far, but then Simone grinned and walked back to her own couch.

"You surprise me, 'Bastien, though I suppose you shouldn't."

"Is that so?"

"When you find something to be passionate about, it consumes you." She sighed and he was surprised by the affection, and perhaps even the pity, that seemed to pour from her eyes into his own. "Don't let this hurt you," she continued. "Love her with all you've got, but do not let yourself forget to live."

Sebastien stared at his lap. This time, he did not deny his love. He could he? Simone knew and nothing he could say would change that. He wondered what Simone even knew of love. He had assumed she had taken a lover while in Paris, but he had never asked. She had arrived in the city, a bright girl of just seventeen, ready to spend a few weeks with her cousin, only he scarcely saw her. She had befriended some mistresses of his friends. When she had stopped returning to his apartment at night, he had assumed that among her collection of new acquaintances was a lover. But having a lover did not necessarily mean his little cousin knew what it meant to be in love, to be tied to another with all she was.

The two stared at each other, each trying to read the mind of the other. Neither looked up when the door opened. It wasn't until Marguerite slammed a tea tray upon the table that they broke eye contact.

"Tea," she announced, straightening up. "Maybe it will calm you." She glared at Sebastien. "The child went to sleep. You'll wake her with all your shouting."

Simone laughed. "The little woman, Marguerite, not the child. You'll frighten Sebastien."

Sebastien glared. Marguerite tsked.

"Have some tea," she demanded. "Calm down, stop yelling. Elise is off tomorrow to see her sister. Ill in Nice. I trust you can toast your own bread?"

"We can train Sebastien. I think he'll make a lovely cook." Sebastien threw a pillow at her.

"You're not a child, Sebastien," Marguerite snapped. "Act like a man."

"Yes, 'Bastien," Simone said in the deepest voice she could muster. "Be a man."

Sebastien ignored Simone, but bowed his head towards Marguerite, her words had made him feel quite like a child indeed.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, more a spoiled youth than a grown man.

Marguerite sighed and shook her head. "Drink your tea." She turned to Simone, pulling an envelope from her pocket. "Simone, this came for you earlier, dear."

Simone's eyes widened as she jumped up to grab the letter, immediately taking it over to her writing desk. "Thank you!"

Marguerite smiled softly and, after bidding both Simone and Sebastien goodnight (with a reminder to drink their tea), she left.

Sebastien leaned forward and took a cup of tea. Marguerite was right. Sparrow was just a girl, a child. It was wrong for him to love her. He was nine, nearly ten years her senior. And he was sure that he had far less potential for a life ahead of him than she did.

"I think I've made quite a fool out of myself," he murmured, taking a sip. When Simone didn't answer, he said, "I shouldn't have berated you as I did. I'm sorry."

To his surprise, Simone let out a sob.

"'Mona?"

Simone was sitting at her writing desk, her legs curled up beneath her. One hand was clasped to her mouth while the other still held her letter. At once, Sebastien stood and went to her, wrapping his arms around her as she sobbed against him.

"Is that your lover?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"Are you teasing me?" He had never heard Simone sound more distraught.

"Sympathizing, actually."

Simone pulled back and rubbed her eyes, her entire face glowing red. "How did you know?"

Sebastien leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "It seemed like a valid reason to be upset." He gave her a squeezed. "Who else would write you something worth hiding?"

Simone only buried her face deeper into his chest.

"Did you love him?" Simone only sobbed harder. "Oh, 'Mona. Is he really worth such tears?" He pulled her off the chair and led her to the couch, placing a cup of tea in her hands and draping his arm over her shoulder. "What happened?"

Simone shook her head and pulled away, setting her tea back on the table.

"Simone?"

"She got married," Simone whispered, her voice barely audible. As soon as the words left her mouth, she gasped and brought her hands to her face, as though she could push the words back in. She choked out another sob, her eyes pleading with him — though for what Sebastien could not say. "Am I an abomination?"

"Mona…" he leaned forward and hugged her again. "You are not an abomination." He could feel her relax against him.

"I should have known, you know? I loved her, 'Bastien. Completely. And I knew that she would never love me as I did her. She used to love someone else and I knew that, I knew that she wasn't mine to love, you know?" She paused to wipe her nose on her sleeve. "But he died and I guess I thought that maybe…that maybe…"

"That maybe she'd come to you?"

"It's foolish, isn't it? I mourned for her loss, 'Bastien, and I still do. And I know that she doesn't love me. But I didn't think she'd marry someone else. I know she doesn't love him."

For a long while, Sebastien was silent. Then, kissing his cousin's head, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I just don't know what to do, 'Bastien. How to feel." Simone bit her lip and looked straight ahead. "It sounds so silly, I know, that because she's married, there's nothing for me in the world, but there isn't."

"Don't say that!" Sebastien moved to kneel before her, placing a hand on her cheek. As he stared he couldn't help but wonder when his little cousin had grown up. For a fleeting moment, he felt as though he was boy again, picking up the little girl after she had descended the stairs with an overly ambitious speed. Shifting up to kiss her forehead, he had to stifle a sad laugh — what he would give now to just be comforting her over something so simple and easily remedied as a skinned knee.

"There's so much out there," he continued, but Simone shook her head.

"Don't. Don't tell me that there's more for me. Not unless you can tell me right now that, if Sparrow never loves you, there's more for you."

He couldn't. If, or rather when, it would be finalized that Sparrow would never love him, that would be all for him. He would stay in his uncle's home for a time, but would leave before overstaying his welcome. He could wander for a while, maybe sneak into a university somewhere, He could be a teacher, perhaps. And then, one day, when the time was right, he could maybe fight once more and see the shining new world his friends had sacrificed their lives for. But that was all ifs. There was nothing in his life he could be sure of except that he would always love Sparrow, more than life, more than France, more than himself.

"There isn't," he said at last. "Not now, at least. But one day…"

"What? One day you'll just wake up and have stopped loving her?"

"Never!" He surprised himself as much with the quickness and earnestness of his own answer as he did with the content. But he caught Simone's eye and stared intently. "I don't think I'll ever stop loving her," he continued calmly. "But I think that, one day, when she's happy, I won't desire for her to love me."

Simone sniffed out a laugh. "That's noble of you, 'Bastien. Foolishly noble."

Sebastien forced a smile and kissed her cheek before moving to sit beside her. "Foolishly passionate I've heard before. But never noble."

"Well, you're both now, I'm afraid."

They fell into silence, sitting there a long while, Simone leaning against Sebastien and Sebastien staring at the letter still clutched in her hand.

_Noble._  He would have never thought to call himself such a word. To him, nobleness would be to abide by Sparrow's wishes and stop loving her. He should, he knew that. It would be the right thing to do. But the more he thought he shouldn't love her, the stronger he found that he did.

"The more you try to stop loving someone," Simone whispered as though reading his mind. "The more you find that you never will."

"So what will you do?" he asked, surprising himself with the thickness of his voice.

Simone shrugged. "Write her, I suppose. If I can make myself brave enough. Congratulate her on her marriage, tell her I am glad for her happiness, though miserable in my love of her." She rose and walked back to the writing desk. "Or maybe I'll just write for myself." She turned to smile at him. "You ought to have been my brother. You're a better man than you think. Goodnight, Sebastien."

Taking her hint, Sebastien nodded and stood. It was probably for the best that he left his cousin to her own thoughts. Slowly, he made his way upstairs. He wondered how long Sparrow would stay in his life. Would she stay with him in his uncle's house, content in her confinement? Would she marry someone, perhaps a friend of Simone's or a bachelor from town? He had been telling the truth to Simone, he told himself. Whenever Sparrow wanted to leave, as long as he knew that she would be happy, that she would be safe, he would let her go. He would not be her prison. To imprison her would make her hate him. He could survive, perhaps, without her love, but he would certainly die with her hate.

It wasn't until he had nearly stepped on her that he even noticed Sparrow curled up against his bedroom door, small and fairy-like in her nightgown. Evidently she had come to speak with him, only to fall asleep waiting for him to come upstairs. Silently, he knelt down. She had been crying, he could see the marks her tears had left upon her cheeks. He cupped her face in his hands and she blinked open her eyes.

"'Bastien."

"I thought you went to sleep."

She shook her head and let herself fall forward against his chest.

Sebastien pulled her close. "I heard Simone is ruining all of your prospects."

Sparrow shook her head. "May I tell you a story?"

Sebastien pushed a strand of hair back from her face. "I think you ought to go to sleep."

"Please?"

"Very well." Sebastien pulled her up, keeping an arm around her as he opened the door. He guided Sparrow into the room and sat at the foot of his bed, staring at her expectantly. But she just stood there in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

"Sparrow?"

She blinked and looked at him, her eyes widening as though she was only just realizing where she was and who she was with. Shaking, she brought her hands to her mouth.

"Sparrow, come here."

She obeyed, sitting next to him upon the bed, staring at her lap.

"What story did you want to tell?"

"A story of two princes," she said hoarsely. "Almost princes. You remember the story of the princess?"

"With the duke?"

Sparrow nodded. "Do you remember the princes?"

"One, yes. And two brothers," he said softly, desperately wanting to reach out and take her hand. "They were later, after the princess was no longer a princess."

"Did I tell you what happened to them?" Sparrow was openly crying now.

Sebastien stared at her. She was shaking and her face was glowing red. But her hands were folded in her lap and she was staring straight ahead.

"Sparrow," he said softly, moving his hand to the space between them. Without looking, she reached for it and, grabbing it, squeezed it tightly.

"They were sold," she choked out. "Like animals. Their mother — their mother who bore them — was so desperate not to lose her status that she sold her own two sons for ten francs a month." She turned to face him, still squeezing his hand, tears cascading down her face. "She sold them, Sebastien. They were only babies and she sold them like animals."

Sebastien said nothing. When Sparrow had last told him a story, she had betrayed little in her tone. Though he knew that the tale she told must have in some way reflected her own history, it truly had felt more like a past life. Something that only existed in dreams or, rather, in nightmares. But this emotion, this passion — all at once her past life felt real to him. Though he knew so few facts of her life, he could feel it. He moved closer to her and pulled her into his embrace, allowing her to sob against him.

"And then?" he asked, rubbing her back.

"Then they weren't who they were. They were someone else."

"And so what happened next?"

Sparrow shook her head as she let out a wail, clutching Sebastien. She sobbed so wretchedly she could scarcely breathe.

"Sparrow!" Sebastien pulled away, taking her face in his hands and holding her to face him. Her eyes were red as she gasped hysterically for breath. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her along with him to the head of the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. Sparrow lay against him, resting her head upon his chest as she wept.

"I think of them always," she murmured as soon as she found the air with which to speak. "Every time I shut my eyes, I see them there. And they hate me. They hate me, Sebastien. Because I couldn't keep them." She looked up at him, as though only just realizing that her secrets were pouring from her lips. "Do you hate me now?" she whispered tearfully. "Knowing the desperation I have seen?"

Sebastien clutched her tight, relieved when the tension left her and she curled fully against him. "That's silly, Little Bird. You know I could never hate you."

"Not at all?"

He surprised himself by kissing the top of her head. "Not even the slightest."

Sparrow choked out another sob. "It's not fair. I'm here now, I'm fed properly. I wear the loveliest clothes. And I'm happy, Sebastien. I'm so happy and I shouldn't be. Why do I get to be happy? What have I done to deserve this?"

Sebastien didn't know how to respond. He knew that it didn't matter how many times he told her that she deserved to be happy. No matter what he said, she would never believe it. For a brief moment, he couldn't help but wonder if anyone would love Sparrow as much as he did. It was selfish and petty and inappropriate, he knew, to think that no one in the world could love her as he did. But, yet, she did not even love herself. And she deserved to be loved more than anyone he had even known. He supposed then, that he could be content with never being able to love her fully as long as she could one day love herself. Maybe then, he thought, she could be happy.

"Why don't you finish telling me their story?" he said at last. "The two little princes?"

Sparrow sobbed again. "I don't know." She shook her head against his chest, her whole body shaking. She pulled back, looking at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes as she shook her head. "I don't know what happened to them." She gasped, a terrified look passing over her face. "I can't finish their story." She sat straight up, shaking. "I can't finish their story," she whispered again and again. "I don't know what happens."

Sebastien sat up and took both her hands. "Make it up, then," he told her, squeezing her hands. "Finish their story. Give it a happy ending."

Sparrow stared at him, her chest heaving as she tried to calm herself. Even when her breathing calmed, she continued to shake her head. "How?" She whispered. "How can I give them a story? How can I let myself find the joy in their lives when for all I know they're starving on the streets, if they're even alive at all?" Once more, she began to choke out sobs, struggling for breath as she stared straight ahead.

Sebastien held her as tightly as he could, his chest tightening as she broke in his arms. Slowly, he began to rock her back and forth, though he was unsure if the movement was for her comfort or his own. He pressed his face into her hair. He could tell her that she was being too pessimistic, that such tragedy could not strike children, not the princess's brothers, not her own, and not her. But he could not allow himself to lie to her. He had passed hundreds of children over the years, starving and dying in the streets. He knew children could suffer and in the back of his mind, he could hear a young child singing:

> _Je suis tomb_ _é_ _par terre_  
>  _C_ _'_ _est la faute_ _à_ _Voltaire  
> _ _Le nez dans le ruisseau  
> _ _C_ _'_ _est la faute_ _à_

Indeed, he knew that tragedy knew no age. He knew that Sparrow, too, had suffered and did so still and that nothing he could ever say to her would alleviate that. But nor could he agree with her assumption. How could he tell her that, yes, in all likelihood, the children who may have once been her brothers were dead or at least in poor condition?

"Tell me what you want to be true," he said at last. "Tell me the story they deserve."

For a long time, Sparrow just clutched him, breathing into his chest until her shaking subsided. He pulled her closer and closer until she had curled up on his lap. He leaned back against his pillows, holding her tight and reminding her that he was there, that all could be well.

"There is so much I want to say," she whispered at last.

"Then say it. I've gone longer than just a single night without sleep."

"They deserve this," Sparrow said, shaking her head. "They deserve a family who feeds them, who clothes them. A family that loves them." She curled deeper into his chest. "A kind woman found them," she whispered, and he could feel her smile against him, allowing herself the contentment of her fantasy. "A childless woman. And she found them and thought 'What lovely little boys.' And she took them in and gave them food and a warm bed. She's put them in a school and makes sure they wash up." Despite her smile, her tears leaked through his shirt and he held her tighter.

"They call her 'maman'," he supplied.

"Yes, they would like that. I don't think they've had a proper maman before."

"What do they study in school?"

Sparrow laughed. "They're too little for philosophy, these princes. Maybe when they're bigger. Maybe mathematics. And they both have lovely spelling. Better than me."

Sebastien snorted. "Everybody has better spelling than you."

She hit his chest but remained lying against him. "I'll pass the message to my teacher. He clearly isn't doing his job."

"I'm sure he's doing his best." He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "How old are they?"

"The princes? Five, I think. And seven. Maybe eight. I am not so good with mathematics."

"And their birthdays?"

"Late autumn, I think. And May."

"What do they eat?"

"Chicken. They have chicken every weekend,"

They went back and forth for hours, Sebastien forcing her to tell a happy tale. Even as his eyes grew heavier, he continued questioning her. What is their favorite game? Do they fight often? What about? What time to they wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night? Do they complain when their maman tells them to go to sleep? With each question and each answer, their voices grew thicker and thicker with sleep. Sebastien finally allowed his eyes to fall shut, his face buried in Sparrow's hair as she mumbled sleepily about how one day the princes would be reunited with their princess sisters, that they would travel all of Europe together, perhaps go to Barcelona. They may have once had a grandparent born there.

"Catalan is not too different from French," Sebastien mumbled as Sparrow nuzzled her face deeper into his chest. "Especially easy if you also know Spanish."

"I don't."

Sebastien's hand slowly slipped down from her shoulder, along her arm, and came to a rest beside her wrist. "I speak Spanish a bit."

"Really?" Sparrow lifted her chin to face him.

"My aunt spoke everything," Sebastien began, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. "English, Spanish, Italian. French, of course. I used to come here in the summers, even before Simone was born. My father and Mathieu didn't get on well, but it was a way for my father to avoid me for months at a time. I must have been five, maybe six, the first time I came to them. I'd never left home before and I think I worried that my uncle would be cross if he knew that I was scared. My second night here, Elizabeth found me in the library. I told her that I missed my room. But she told me that this was my second room now, my second home, and took me back to sleep. She used to sing me Spanish lullabies when I was small. Even when I grew older, I would stand with her when she sang them to Simone. She had a lovely voice." He shut his eyes, trying to conjure up the sound of his aunt's voice. Sparrow was silent against him and, for a moment, he thought that she had fallen asleep. But then:

"Better than me?"

"What?"

Sparrow shifted to rest her head upon his shoulder. "Was she a better singer than me?"

Sebastien inhaled sharply as her breath tickled his neck. He quickly turned it into a laugh. "Everyone is better than you at singing."

"But you like it. My voice."

"I do?"

"You've never told me to be quiet. Not since you became my friend, anyway."

"No, Little Bird," he laughed, "I haven't." He could feel her eyes flicker shut against his skin.

"Will you sing for me?"

Sebastien wanted to say no. He wanted to tell her to go back to her room, to get away from him. He wanted to tell her how he loved her and kiss her until he could kiss her no more. But he could not turn her away any more than he could let himself submit to his love of her. So he wrapped his arms all the more tightly around her and began, very quietly, to sing. It wasn't much — he was no true singer. But he let those Spanish lullabies roll from his tongue, his voice winding around them, tying them together. Sparrow allowed herself to melt into him, quiet, calm, and safe in his embrace and under the cover of his voice.

It was still dark when Sparrow awoke and it took her a moment to discover what was wrong. She wasn't in her bed. She wasn't in her room at all. She was curled up not only in Sebastien's bed, but upon Sebastien himself. His arms were draped over her, one hand resting delicately on the swell of her hip. Her own hand rested upon his chest and she watched the way it rose and fell with each breath he took. She watched as her fingers bent in, grasping at his shirt. She stopped herself with a quiet gasp. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, she thought she might rather die than wake him. Fully releasing her grip, she let her hand trace up his chest. He slept so soundly that she thought perhaps nothing could wake him. She smiled as her fingers reached his collar, dancing delicately where the fabric gave way to flesh. Scarcely breathing, she brought her hand to his face, her fingers floating just above his lips as she traced their shape over and over again. She bit her own lip to keep from laughing as her mind wandered back to that first conversation with her soldier-boy, not so many months ago. She wondered if perhaps she had misunderstood, if perhaps his marble reputation was due less to his resistance of emotion and more to the perfection of his face.

Maybe one day, when they had worn out their welcome at Mathieu's home, they could travel together, leave France. They could go to Rome and see a world she had never known and she would laugh as he, at her command, mocked the statues that shared his perfect beauty. But she knew that that day would never come. Their time together would be spent here, in the home of his uncle. And when it was time, even though it would break her completely, she would leave and let Sebastien live out his life without her, just the fantasy of a girl he had no reason to hate.

She lifted her head, her breath causing the stray hairs covering his face to part. He looked so peaceful and happy in his sleep — she could never destroy that. She ran her hand lightly over his face. He smiled in his sleep, his dimples both cracking and perfecting his stony exterior.

Before she could stop herself, Sparrow dropped her head and brushed her lips to that small indentation, the corner of her mouth just overlapping with his. His breath was warm against her and, for a moment, she didn't care if the beating of her heart got loud enough to startle him awake. But then his hand, still resting around her middle, began to shift, his thumb stroking her hipbone.  _Go back to sleep_ , she silently begged of him.  _Please don_ _'_ _t wake_. His breath remained constant against her face and he stayed asleep. And his hand stayed on her hip, tracing circles through her nightgown.

She had to leave. She was so stupid. Just a foolish, silly little girl and if she didn't leave right now, she was sure that she would do something she would only regret. His friendship and affection were too important to her and she would risk it for nothing. She turned her head slightly, just needing one moment of his lips upon her cheek. And as soon as she felt them, she pulled away. His fingers clutched her nightgown.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, moving his hand away, setting it upon his own chest. His breath stayed even. Holding her own, Sparrow slipped form the bed and silently made her way to the door. She opened it as quietly as she could and snuck out, the door shutting softly behind her. As soon as she rounded the corner, she pressed herself against the wall, heart pounding.

She knew better. She had been through so much — she knew better.

She turned her head, glancing down the dark corridor in the direction of her room. Simone would surely suspect that something was wrong if she barged into Sparrow's room when she awoke and Sparrow wasn't there. Perhaps it was for the best that she had woken when she did, but now her heart was pounding within her chest and there was no possibility of her going back to sleep. Should she go to her own room, she would surely lie awake in bed until Simone came to wake her. She would lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the way Sebastien's fingers had grasped her. The way his lips felt up on her head, upon her cheek, the way they might feel upon her own lips. She wrapped her arms around herself to steady her trembling. She had to think of something else.

Tip-toeing down the stairs, Sparrow made her way into the library. She would find a book she had never read before and read and read and read until Sebastien was no longer possessing her mind. She just had to find something worth reading. The library was dark when she entered. Dark and cold. She didn't think she had ever been in there without a fire burning. She shivered in her dressing gown. It felt silly to shiver so violently while so well covered in such a grand house.

She went to the shelf that Simone had claimed to house her personal favorites and grabbed the largest volume she could find. She didn't even notice that it wasn't in French until she had already sat down. She snorted when she noticed, but opened it anyway, sounding out the words to the empty room. It was slow and tedious, but her voice took on a new cadence and she rather liked it. She continued even as the sun began to rise.

"Your English is not so horrible."

Sparrow gasped, dropping the book onto her lap. "I thought everyone was still sleeping," she whispered.

Mathieu smiled. "I prefer to rise early."

"I was only reading it. Just sounding out the letters."

Mathieu nodded. "Well, you did so quite well."

"Is it the Bible, monsieur?" She asked suddenly.

"I'm sorry?"

"The book," she said softly, feeling the color rise in her cheeks. Standing she took a step towards him and held out the book. "There. In the beginning. 'Eden.' I know some things." She bit her lip, suddenly aware that she was in only her nightgown and dressing gown.

Mathieu's back straightened and he stared at her for a moment before he smiled and walked towards her, placing an arm on her shoulder and guiding her to the couch. "You're a very clever woman, my dear. I don't think anyone could deny that." He closed the book and set it on her lap. "But no, it's not a Bible."

"Another Eden?" She opened the book, flipping through the pages to see if she recognized another word. "There!" she exclaimed, pointing excitedly. "See, look! 'Eve.'"

"The first woman."

Sparrow shut the book and looked up at him, raising her right eyebrow. "Lilith was first."

"That depends on whom you ask."

She had almost gone the whole of their conversation without thinking about Sebastien. "I like to think that Lilith was first."

"Oh?"

"Even God makes mistakes, monsieur."

Mathieu nodded again, smiling softly. "That he does."

"But this is the story of Eve then? Like the Bible?"

"It's a poem," Mathieu explained. "It retells the Bible's story."

"I didn't know you could do that," Sparrow whispered, running her finger over the page, "tell the Bible differently."

"Well, you know of Lilith." When Sparrow didn't respond, Mathieu continued. "Tell me, child, what do you know of her?"

"She was Adam's first wife," Sparrow said, suddenly embarrassed by her childishness. "She was a mistake. But that doesn't make her bad."

She could feel Mathieu's eyes on her, burning through flesh and bone and she feared as though she had no secrets. Before she could stop herself, she began to silently cry. Shaking, she turned to meet his gaze. She tried to be angry, she tried to tell herself not to let him continue.  _Correct me_ , she silently challenged him.  _Tell me I_ _'_ _m wrong_. But she wasn't angry. Only scared.

But Mathieu just put a hand on her face, blocked her tears from dripping any further. "I could tell you about her," he said, and she was taken aback by the kindness of his voice. "I could tell you true stories and false ones. I could tell you her origin. Things to comfort you or things to distress." He smiled sadly. "But you don't want to hear them." He took the book from her lap. "Are you going to continue?"

Sparrow shook her head. "I only read in French. Sebastien will teach me Spanish, though."

"Spanish?"

"At Catalan. I'm going to Barcelona one day."

"You plan on leaving us, child?"

"Not leaving, monsieur, no. People just go away eventually. And when I have to go away, I'd like to go to Barcelona."

Mathieu rose and returned the book to its proper position. "Why Barcelona?"

"Why anywhere else?"

"You don't speak Spanish or Catalan."

"Sebastien will teach me."

Mathieu let out a great laugh. "He does like to show off, doesn't he?"

Sparrow shrugged. "I think it's good of him. I think that there are men with so much knowledge and all they do is keep it to themselves. It makes them feel special. Men like feeling special."

Again, Mathieu laughed. "We do, do we?"

"I think so. You don't want to be like everyone else. So the smart men keep all the knowledge so that they can feel better than most men and certainly better than all women. That's why they don't like us learning."

"But Sebastien teaches you?"

Sparrow bit her lip, unsure of how to proceed. After a moment she nodded and looked up at Mathieu, praying both that he would understand her completely and not at all. "I don't feel stupid when he talks to me," she explained, her voice feeling constricted as it danced up her throat. "Sometimes before and sometimes after, but he never makes me feel silly. He used to, and it made me so sad. But I think that sometimes even men can be boys. And he grew up. He knows he's not better than me, just that the rest of the world thinks he is."

Mathieu contemplated her words. "You're quite articulate," was his only respond.

Sparrow shrugged again and stood. "My spelling is rather poor. I'm not a very good writer, I'm very slow. So I just have to trust my mouth."

"I see why Sebastien so enjoys your company. It's seldom one finds someone who thinks as quickly as they talk."

"Quicker, monsieur. I'm afraid that if I ever spoke all my thoughts, I'd never be quiet."

Mathieu snorted. "You're a clever child, my dear. I think that those you speak to are quite glad to hear you."

Sparrow blushed. "I should go back to my room," she said softly. "Simone will get annoyed if I'm awake and she wasn't the one to wake me."

"Well, we mustn't deprive her of her luxuries."

With a small smile, Sparrow left the library. Her eyes ached with exhaustion, but she had no desire to sleep. When she crawled into her bed, she discovered that her plan had not worked as intended. True, she had distracted herself for a few minutes, but the moment her head hit her pillow, she found herself thinking how much warmer Sebastien's bed was than hers. It felt smaller — though she knew it wasn't. But now her bed felt too large and too empty. Not the size for someone to sleep alone.

For what felt like forever, she laid in her bed, imaging Sebastien was with her. But the sun eventually flooded her room and still Simone had not come. The clock on her mantel read nine and, confused, Sparrow left her bed. There was no point in staying. Silently praying that the corridor would be empty, she left her room and walked quickly to Simone's door.

"Simone?" she called, knocking softly. There was no answer. She pushed the door open.

A lump in the bed and a mess of red curls poking out from under the blankets indicated her friend's presence. Sparrow shut the door. "Lazy," she hissed with a laugh, walking forward and throwing herself down on the bed beside her.

Simone grunted as Sparrow pulled back the covers. Simone blinked in the light and stared at Sparrow with red eyes. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all.

"Are you alright?" Sparrow asked, already knowing the answer.

"No."

"Do you want to be alone?"

"Yes…No."

"Should I stay?"

Simone only choked out a sob in response. Wordlessly, Sparrow crawled under the blankets and laid beside Simone, pulling her close. In the few months they had known each other, Sparrow had never seen Simone weep. Sparrow kissed her forehead.

She had never been good at comforting people. It was silly, she knew, for someone who was comforted as frequently as she was to not know how to return the favor, but she knew nothing of weepy people. Only that they did not want to weep.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Simone shook her head into Sparrow's neck. "Tell me something."

"What?"

"Anything that's not 'Stop crying, Simone.'"

Sparrow squeezed her tighter and thought for a moment. There was so much she wanted to say and so little that she could. So she settled with what she knew.

> " _With blackest moss the flower-plots  
> _ _Were thickly crusted, one and all:  
> _ _The rusted nails fell from the knots  
> _ _That held the pear to gable-wall.  
> _ _The broken sheds look_ _'_ _d sad and strange:  
> _ _Unlifted was the clinking latch;  
> _ _Weeded and worn the ancient thatch  
> _ _Upon the lonely moated grange._

Simone squeezed Sparrow's hand, her own voice rough from a sleepless night of tears.

> " _She only said,_ _'_ _My life is dreary,  
> _ _He cometh not,_ _'_ _she said;  
> _ _She said,_ _'_ _I am aweary, aweary,  
> _ _I would that I were dead!_ "

She sighed and, sitting up, wiped the tears from her face. "Oh, my Mariana," she said.

Sparrow too sat up, shifting uncomfortable. "I fear that was the wrong thing to say."

But Simone just shook her head. "No, it was quite right." She sighed and took Sparrow's hand. "Will you answer me honestly?"

"Of course."

"How long did it take you to realize you never loved him? The boy you wanted to die for?"

Sparrow leaned back against Simone's pillows. "Some days," she began softly, "I wake up and forget I don't love him. And I think of how happy he is without me and want to die. But then something happens, perhaps something so little I don't even realize it. And I realize I don't love him, I just want to."

"Why? Why love somebody who doesn't love you?"

Sparrow was shaking and she held Simone's hand tighter. "Because I think I always knew he didn't love me. So I would never be disappointed. It's so much easier to love someone who you can't even dream will love you back. Because when he doesn't, it hurts so much less."

"Have you ever loved someone who might have loved you back?"

Sparrow stared at the door, but shook her head. "Does it hurt?"

"Terribly."

Sparrow continued to stare at the door, but it never opened. 


	13. Demon's Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long! Being a second semester senior is a bit tougher than I expected, but at least I finished all my grad school applications. Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed/is returning back to this story. I know it's been ages, but I made up for it with a really long chapter. Plus it's about four days before this story's birthday, so yay for that.
> 
> If you haven't read the shorter fic that predates this one, "Beelzebub's Heart and Lilith's Soul," I'd recommend it. Some of the events are relevant to this chapter. Not necessary, but it'll give you a fuller story. On the same note:  
> Chapter Warnings: mentions of previous sexual assaults
> 
> Massive thank you to Mel for beta-ing this so wonderfully, and to Ceara for nagging me to get this done. And also for asking for angst.

The whole of March left Sebastien with a bitter taste in his mouth. Snow melted, days grew longer, and the birth of spring brought no mirth. His nights were sleepless and his days were restless. He had woken that morning, the first week of March, to a bed emptier than it had been when he fell asleep and a friend, his only friend, who refused to look him in the eye. When they spoke, he could sense her discomfort, her hesitation to speak as they once did. At first, he thought her embarrassed of falling asleep in his bed, but Sparrow didn't seem the type to panic over a risk to her reputation. And then he had wondered if perhaps he had said something while asleep - or in a state close to sleep - that was slowly eating away at her trust for him. But she said nothing and, when Sebastien asked Simone, she too claimed to know nothing.

"I keep trying to leave her alone with you," she had whispered to him, a morning a few weeks after Sebastien had woken up alone. "But she keeps following me." It made as little sense to her as it did to Sebastien himself.

It wasn't until the last night of March that he found himself finally alone with her. Simone had lured Sparrow to the couch with tea, forcing the poor girl between the two cousins and, after a single blink, he found himself blinking in the dim light of the dying fire, her skirt soft against his cheek and her hand delicately brushing his hair from his face. For a while, he had supposed himself to be dreaming and remained perfectly still, frightening that a single movement might jerk him awake. But Sparrow's fingers continued to trace his hair line and the fire grew dimmer and dimmer.

"Sebastien?" She had whispered, and he immediately sat up, blinking repeatedly, his mind fuzzy and disoriented. Sparrow smoothed her skirt where his head had rested and he blushed.

"You haven't been sleeping," she had stated, as he stammered, "I'm terribly sorry."

For a moment, they had stared at each other. Each taking a deep breath, they tried again. "You've been avoiding me," he told her, as she had shaken her head and said, "It's fine." She had surprised him then by laughing.

"I wasn't sure you wanted me around."

"Why would't I?"

Sparrow had shrugged and said, "You're never without me. And I've heard I'm a tiresome person."

"Who told you that?"

"Life."

He knew she would never believe him, however many times he told her she was wrong, so he simply took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze, hoping that she would understand. "I miss you."

"You're a fool, then." But she laughed.

Then they had returned to silence for several minutes before Sebastien asked, "What time is it?"

"Nearly two, I think."

"You should have gone to bed."

"I didn't want to wake you. You haven't been sleeping. I hear you as you pass, you know."

He stared at her, unsure of what to say. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks and felt the shame. The noble warrior, unable to even sleep through the night.

"I think of joining you some nights, you know," she said softly. "Just so as to not be alone. I try not to shut my eyes, you see. There's more in my mind than I care to see."

"I watch them die. Every time I shut my eyes, I hear them screaming and I can't save them."

Sparrow nodded and he was thankful that she said nothing. For a moment, he wished it would not be so sinfully forward to tell her that he had only slept through the night once and that he had no doubt that it was her presence that allowed him to do so. "There is little solace when I wake, but there is some and that must be enough."

"So you roam the house like a ghost in the dark?"

"It makes it easier to stay awake. It's childish, running away from dreams."

"Not childish at all." To Sebastien's surprise, Sparrow leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. And then, as suddenly as she had embraced him, she let him go. Quickly, she stood and, smoothing her skirt, walked to the writing desk.

"What on Earth are you doing?" He asked, staring at her in bewilderment.

"I'm tired, Sebastien. I'm tired of all the things that frighten me. I didn't used to be scared of anything." He watched in silence as she wrote. "There" she said at last. "My demons." She beckoned him to her. "Write," she commanded. "I won't read."

"Write what?"

"Whatever frightens you most." She pressed a pen into his hands and he could feel her shaking. She turned away and allowed him to write in privacy. Write that he had killed all his friends, write that his affection was poisonous, that his life's work had all been in vain. That bird's are migratory creatures. When he finished, he folded up his paper.

"Now what?"

Sparrow walked to the dying fire, her own paper clutched in her hand. "We try to live," and she threw her paper into the flames. He followed in suite.

"Do you feel better?" He asked, for though there was some satisfaction in watching his paper glow to ash, he felt no more at ease about his impending sleep.

Sparrow stared at him, contemplating his question. "I think I shall tell myself yes. After all, that's what life is."

"Lies?"

"Make believe. Pretend. Our stories are only what we make them to be. So now I've burned my demons and I'm choosing to let myself believe I will sleep soundly tonight, that there is nothing left to haunt me."

Slowly, Sebastien reached forward to take her chin in his hand and turn her to face him. "Memories cannot be shed as easily as a name, little bird."

"That's why it's called make believe," she whispered. "You must chose to believe. I don't want to believe that those we've loved want to see us haunted forever."

Sebastien nodded, though it was for Sparrow's sake. He knew full well that she was tormented by memories of those she had loved and lost. But he knew - or perhaps hoped - that she didn't carry the burden of guilt. She may have lost a brother or a lover at his barricade, but he was the one who led them there.

"You should sleep now, Sebastien."

With a nod, he offered her his arm and led her upstairs.

"Pleasant dreams, little bird," he told her at the door.

"And to you."

Of course, neither did. He would fall asleep quickly, only to wake sweaty and shaking, the names of his friends tangled together in a scream caught in his throat, blocking the air from his lungs. She would lie in bed, staring at the wall, singing a song she believed neither sleep nor death could steal from her. Until, of course, sleep did and her eyes grew heavy and forced her to sleep until she would inevitably wake, clawing at the fiery explosion beneath her breast.

But come morning they would tell each other that they had slept peacefully, for one would never distress the other. He hated to lie to her, but he rather he told her lies than didn't speak to her all. And Sparrow - her whole existence was a lie for her own contentment. Surely she could spare one more for his.

On the following Tuesday, Sparrow lay shaking in her bed. When she closed her eyes, all she could see were faces. Faces that terrified her, faces she would do anything to see again. Almost silently, she began to sing under her breath. She lost count of how many times she let the words pour out, over and over again. Not even sleep would stop her this night. She fell silent only when her door handle creaked. She shut her eyes eyes as a lamp flooded her room in light, feigning sleep as best she could. For a minute there was silence. She wondered if it was Sebastien, awake with his own ghosts (he was not good enough at feigning energy to fool her), coming to see if she at least slept soundly. But the footsteps were approaching her were too soft. As soon as she could feel Simone's breath upon her face, she opened her eyes.

"Boo!"

"A noble effort, but you're not as good at pretending to sleep as you think you are."

"Well, then go away and let me sleep properly." She pulled the blankets over her head, but Simone yanked them back.

"Mona," Sparrow whined, burying her face in her pillow. "It's the middle of the night."

"Nonsense," said Simone, pulling back the blinds. "It's nearly four."

Sparrow rolled her eyes. "I'd hate to fight over technicalities, but I think most people consider this night."

"Oh, come on!" Simone grabbed her feet. "Don't you know what today is?"

"Wednesday?"

"It's Sebastien's birthday, you ninny! He's twenty-three today."

"Old man," Sparrow muttered, though she sat up. "No wonder he's so bitter."

"So you're coming?"

"Where?"

"I want to make him a cake."

Sparrow stared at her. She hadn't made a cake in years, not since she was a little girl. She hadn't even tasted one since then. "Have you ever made one before?"

Simone shrugged. "Madame Blanche gave me a recipe and Marguerite got me the ingredients." She cocked her head. "Have you ever made one?"

Sparrow traced her finger along her blanket. "My mother once let my sister and I make a little cake for our father's birthday. It was a disaster." She stared at her lap, certain that Simone was staring at her, trying to decipher something more about her. With a sigh, Sparrow looked up. "It was a long time ago. I wouldn't remember what to do."

Simone, to Sparrow's surprise, laughed and grabbed her hand. "That's why we have recipes."

Sparrow rolled her eyes, but allowed Simone to drag her through the halls, giggling quietly as they made their way to the kitchen.

"Right, then." Simone forced the recipe in to Sparrow's hands. "What to we need?

Sparrow stared at the paper, the unfamiliar words swimming before her eyes. The letters she knew, but she had never seen these words before.

"Simone," she pleaded, but Simone shook her head.

"You're a better reader than you think you are, but Sebastien's been a fool in teaching you only philosophy. You're clever but you have no confidence when you're reading anything practical." She paused, setting a sack of flour on the counter and staring at Sparrow. "I mean, there is more to life than Sebastien, isn't there?"

Sparrow glared at her. "I like philosophy. For  _me_."

"Oh, I know it! But that doesn't mean you can go your whole life without knowing the difference between 'flour' and 'flower.'"

"Right," Sparrow muttered, glaring at the recipe. "Teach us girls to read a recipe because we're worth nothing if we can't."

Simone put her hands on her hip, lips pursed. "What on Earth has gotten in to you lately?" When Sparrow only glared back, she continued, "Well, I promise you Sebastien can read a recipe and spell the differences between flour and flower."

Sparrow stuck out her tongue. "It's much harder having to unlearn all the misspellings than if I started fresh as a child. I  _did_ learn to spell, but from my papa and I don't think I've ever learned anything good from him."

But Simone laughed her merry laugh and said, "Well, clearly he taught you something right. You're not all bad, you know. You just need to relearn some of the simple things."

Sparrow bit her lip, feeling very much like a child. She took a shaky breath, trying to keep her expression one of frustration, but her efforts were futile. She knew Simone was only trying to be sweet, but it was of no use. They  _were_ simple things, but here she was at seventeen, still struggling to read basic words, much less spell them. She wiped a bitter tear from her eye.  _Weak girl_   _—_ _you never used to cry_.

"Oh, Sparrow!" Simone stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Sparrow, who found her hiss of "Foolish, foolish child!" muffled in Simone's shoulder. "I'm sorry — you know I meant nothing by it," she said, rubbing Sparrow's back.

"I'm trying," Sparrow choked out. "I'm trying so hard, but I'm just a stupid fool who can't do anything right!"

"Oh, nonsense!" Simone held her out at arm's length. "How many seventeen year olds can rant on Rousseau as you do?"

"I struggle to read him."

"So do I! Any sane person struggles through all that nonsense! I promise you that Sebastien does too. But he's a man and too stupidly proud to ever say so! You are not stupid, Sparrow. Now dry your tears — Sebastien would have me hanged if he knew I made you cry."  
Sparrow shook her head. "No, it's my own fault. Honestly, he'd only tell me to try harder. That I'm only as stupid as I let myself be or something."

Simone snorted. "Now, that's the only stupid thing I've ever heard you say. I think he's quite proud of you. He knows — even if you don't — that education isn't necessarily intelligence. You're smart as anyone. He admires you — no, don't try to deny it! Why, I'm sure if you told him that the King has our best interests at heart and that he ought not plan to fight against him ever again, he'd have to go sit down and reevaluate his entire life!"

Both girls burst into giggles. Sparrow rolled her eyes, stifling her laughter. "I thought you brought me down here to make a cake — are we baking or not?"

And so the two set out to complete their task. Aside from a little mix up between salt and sugar, it went surprisingly well, save the moment when Sparrow nearly dropped the whole thing on the floor.

"Oi!" Simone called. "Wake up!" and threw the nearest thing to her at Sparrow, who shrieked as the egg split upon her dressing gown. They both watched in horrified silence as the egg dripped down her chest, leaving a yellow trail down the white gown.

"Sparrow, I'm so sorry," Simone whispered as Sparrow's nose wrinkled. "I don't know what I was thinking."

Sparrow wiped her hand over her chest, flinging the egg to the floor. "I've taken a bullet to the chest. Though I fear that this may be far worse." She bit her lip as both of them stared in silence. Her mouth tightened as she tried to hold in her laughter, but her attempt was in vain and soon both girls were doubled over.

"Oh, God," Simone gasped out, leaning against the counter and sliding down to the floor. "We are a right mess, aren't we, Sparrow? A complete disaster."

Sparrow's laughter died and she absently began tracing her name in the flour on the counter. "I suppose, yes." She wiped her finger on her dressing gown. "A complete and utter disaster."

Simone continued to laugh, but Sparrow couldn't. For Simone, perhaps, it was all a game. A moment of something so silly, it was almost a hardship. A broken egg could be called a disaster. But it would pass. In a moment or two, the silliness would be forgotten. Life would not be a mess for Mademoiselle Simone Enjolras. She would always be loved, always have a home. Simone would always be Simone. But with each sleepless night, Sparrow was increasingly sure that her days were numbered. She could not close her eyes without being haunted by the ghosts of her past. Even in silence there was screaming. There was a race between Sparrow and the girl she used to be. And Sparrow was losing her lead. With each day she sat still, her past was catching up. She would have to move on. She would have to abandon Sparrow. Changing her name wasn't enough. She would have to run forever. She would have to leave France.

No.

This was a feeling for the dead of night, for when she feared Sebastien thought too highly of her. But Simone kept her grounded, she kept her in place. She was her sister and one would never abandon the other. But now as she stared at her she saw the truth. Even a friendship as theirs could not last. Though the love she felt for Simone differed from that which she felt for Sebastien, she knew that such a love would still one day turn to hatred. It was April and she had been still for nearly four months and she had to leave. Leave Sebastien. Leave Simone. Leave a home that, for the first time in her life, felt like her own.

She opened her mouth to breath but found that she could neither allow air in or out. Her chest burned and her hand flew to her breast, almost worried a bullet was still there, lodged deep within her. She clawed at herself, unable to even gasp. She was barely aware of Simone calling her name, much less the terror in her voice. She was only vaguely aware of her own voice, whispering "I can't — I can't" through her gasps. For the first time, Sparrow doubted her ability to do what was needed. To live in a world without Simone would be torture. Sebastien — death.

"Sparrow!"

She could feel Simone's hands close around her wrists. She recoiled with a shriek of terror. Immediately, Simone stepped back, holding her hands in the air.

"Sparrow," Simone repeated, voice trembling. "Sparrow, it's me. You're safe. I'm right here. You're safe."

Sparrow blinked, staring around the room as though she had only just gained awareness of her surroundings. "I don't want to leave you," she whispered. She shook, her insides feeling too large for her skin. Every aspect of her being ached as she had never ached before, for never before had she had to abandon such bliss. She watched as Simone sucked in her lower lip.

Simone held up her hands in front of her. "Will you let me hold you?"

Sparrow nodded, not trusting herself to speak again. Immediately, Simone was wrapping her tightly in her arms, kissing the top of Sparrow's head and rubbing her back. "So don't, then," Simone whispered. "I want you here. Papa wants you here." She paused, stepping back and turning Sparrow's face to look at her. "And you can't leave 'Bastien. I think if you tried, he'd follow you."

Sparrow nodded, though she remained unconvinced. She was sure that she must annoy Simone by now. It seemed as though once each week she panicked over the prospect of leaving, only to allow Simone or Sebastien to convince her to stay, at least for a while longer. "Honestly, at this point, you must find me so tiresome that you actually want me gone — save yourself from my incessant tears."

Simone shook her head, smiling sadly. "We love you, tears and all."

Suddenly, the door swung open, causing both girls to jump with a start. Sebastien stood in the doorway, only in his night gown, his hair sticking out in all directions. Sparrow couldn't help but smile at the sight of him.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, breathing heavily. "I heard a scream and neither of you were in your rooms." He turned to Sparrow. "Are you well?"

Sparrow nodded and, before she could tell herself it was improper, raced forward, throwing her arms around him. Without hesitation, he returned her embrace. Though she could feel Simone's eyes on her back, she vowed to stay in his arms as long as she could. "Happy birthday, old man," she whispered into his chest.

Sebastien laughed, but there was no warmth to it. "Are you sure you're well?"

She nodded, listening to the rapid beating of his heart. Her own breath sped to match it and, were she not so upset at the idea that she had frightened him, she may have forced a laugh as well. "I'm fine. Simone only gave me a start, that's all."

"You frightened me."

Simone laughed, reminding Sparrow of her presence. "Our Sebastien? Frightened?"

Sebastien pulled away from Sparrow, though he kept his grip on her arms firm. "You're not half as witty as you think you are, you know."

"Oh, she's right — you are just a cranky old man. Off! Back to bed with you."

Sebastien caught Sparrow's gaze and rolled his eyes. "As should you. It's five o'clock in the morning. What the Hell are you two even doing down here?"

Sparrow opened her moth to speak, but Simone was quicker. "I suppose you'll have to go back to sleep and wait until later to find out."

"Simone," Sebastien began. But Sparrow placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Go to sleep and don't worry about us. Twenty-three." Sparrow laughed, staring up at him. "Old men need their sleep, don't you know?"

Sebastien looked as though he wanted to respond, but thought better of it. "Did you sleep before she dragged you down here at least?"

Sparrow smiled. "Soundly as a baby," she lied. "Always do. Now listen to Simone: off with you! Back to bed!"

He left, shaking his head. Sparrow turned to Simone.

"Shall we continue? Perhaps we can at least have something that looks presentable, even if it's inedible."

Simone rolled her eyes. "You're blind, you know."

"My eyes are perhaps the only undamaged part of me."

"He loves you, you know. As much as you love him, at the very least."

Though she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, Sparrow shook her head. "Nonsense. I'm a child to him. Now, come. What time will the servants be up?" She tried to smile. Having servants was something she had found herself unable to adjust to. Marguerite was more a mother or a nurse than a servant and Sparrow found herself loving her perhaps more than she had ever loved her own mother. But the rest of them, she couldn't even bear to look at. She had walked in on a young girl, no older than she herself was, making up her bed one morning and found herself speechless in guilt and shame. She didn't deserve to have a servant. She didn't even deserve to be a servant.

"You can't avoid them forever."

"It's not avoiding — I just don't like being in their way."

"You're a horrible liar."

"Nonsense." Again, each stuck out her tongue at the other, each noting that the other was still very much a child, indeed.

In the end, their creation neither looked nor tasted like a cake. They brought it to the breakfast table, still in their dressing gowns, beaming rather than showing their shame. Mathieu declared it a valiant effort, though he did a rather poor job of stifling his laughter. Sebastien, on the other hand, kissed both's cheeks and thanked them before Marguerite came in and chastised both girls for their state of undress and sent them back upstairs. By eleven, Sebastien and Simone were both seated comfortably in the library, noses fully buried in their books. Sparrow, however, donned her black boots and blue bonnet.

"Monsieur Mathieu," she asked softly, knocking on the door to his study.

"Mademoiselle Sparrow!" He smiled and stood. "Where are you off to?"

"Simone gave — lent me a little money so I could give something to Sebastien for his birthday." She blushed, ashamed that she had nothing, not a sous to her own name. That to buy her dearest friend a birthday gift, she had to borrow from his cousin.

But Mathieu nodded. "Of course," he said. "I'm sure he would love that. Would you like for me to fetch the coachman?"

"No, thank you, monsieur. I think I should like to walk. Take some time to think, if it's of no trouble to you."

Mathieu stared at her and she bit her lower lip. "Should I be worried about you, my dear?"

Confused, Sparrow shook her head. "I shouldn't know why."

"So you'll be home for supper?"

Sparrow froze. To confess her fears of her future to Simone and Sebastien was one thing. But Monsieur Mathieu…While she craved the affection of Simone and Sebastien, she craved Mathieu's respect. Though she knew she had invaded everyone's life, it was Mathieu who had opened his doors to her and shown her as much kindness as he did his own daughter. Perhaps it was Mathieu and not his daughter who anchored her to their home. She couldn't bear the thought of making him regret the kindness he had shown her.

"You may not see it, Monsieur, but your home is paradise. Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could ever leave," she told him, and prayed it was true.

To her surprise, Mathieu laughed. "But you're cleverer than that. Paradise may be lovely, but you are no Eve. Whatever my nephew may say of you, you are no bird, but a woman. People can't live in cages." He stepped towards her and took her hand. "Remember that this is not a cage. You're no prisoner here."

"I'm home," she told him. "And I'll always be home for supper."

When he smiled, she felt herself fill with a warmth and safety she hadn't known since childhood. He squeezed her hand and, releasing it, returned to his desk. "Take this with you then," he said, counting a few coins out of his purse.

Sparrow shook her head. "I couldn't. Simone's already lent me all I need, anyway."

But Mathieu held it out to her. "Think of it as your allowance. Simone has her yearly allowance to spend as she will. If Sebastien left the house, he would as well. You are no less deserving."

"They're your family, monsieur."

"And you aren't?" He sighed. "This is nothing, Sparrow. I shall give you more later, but, please, take this for now. Buy yourself a book that looks appealing to you — not my daughter or nephew, but you. Anything you wish to read."

Sparrow pursed her lips together, worried that at any moment she may start to cry. "You are too good to me. I thank you."

"Be home before dark."

"I will." With a quick, sloppy curtsy, she turned and left the room. To her relief, she saw neither Simone nor Sebastien on her way and left the house undisturbed.

It was a beautiful April day. She always loved Spring, when she was neither oppressed by heat nor swallowed by the frigidity of winter. Her bonnet slipped off and she smiled, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face. She knew she should probably pulled her bonnet back up, but she was enjoying the sun far too much. It had been a long winter. She hummed off-key to herself as she walked, glad for the opportunity to be by herself and to think of nothing. She was independent. She had been into town a several times with Simone, but since arriving at the Enjolras' home, Sparrow had scarcely stepped outside alone. And now she was going into town all on her own. She felt as giddy as a child. It was early. She could find something for Sebastien, spend the rest of the day in the bookshop, and still be home before dark.

She nodded at a few familiar faces as she made her way through town. An old friend of Simone's, a girl called Charlotte, smiled and waved at her from the steps of the church. A woman she had met at the hatter's (and whose name she had rudely forgotten) wished her a good day as the passed. Outside the barber's, she found herself assaulted by the baker's young daughter. Each time she had gone into town with Simone — nearly once a week since their first excursion — they had gone into the same little bakery, always hungry for a sweet bread and a chat with the baker's wife, a woman of perhaps thirty with the perfect penchant for gossip. Madame Blanche was kind and, though she never remembered her place, provided Sparrow with plenty of friendly talks that allowed her to forget all the rules of being a proper lady she desperately needed to learn. And it was a lovely opportunity to socialize with those she didn't live with. Sparrow had quickly grown to love that weekly hour or so passed with the baker's wife and her three small children.

"Mademoiselle, hide me!" The little girl shrieked as she buried herself in Sparrow's skirt. Not even a moment later, the child's brother, a boy of nearly seven years, darted around the corner.

"Mathilde! Maman, I found her!" He began running forward, but Sparrow held up a hand and knelt in front of the girl.

"What's wrong, petite?"

Mathilde looked at her with large brown eyes. "Théo told Maman I was being naughty."

"Were you?"

"Just a little, mademoiselle." She pressed her lips together and Sparrow could not help but sympathize.

"Mathilde!" The baker's wife came stomping around the corner, baby on her hip. "Théo, go back inside."

"I saw her take it, Maman!"

"Théo!" She smiled at Sparrow. "I'm sorry they've bothered you, Mademoiselle Sparrow. They've taken quite a liking to you."

"Oh, I don't mind." Sparrow stood, lifting Mathilde up with her.

"Mathilde," the girl's mother said, "make your apologies to Mademoiselle Sparrow."

Mathilde smiled and rested her head on Sparrow shoulder. "I brought you a present, Mademoiselle."

She laughed. "Oh, did you?"

The girl held out her hand, opening it and revealing a rather squished little cake. Sparrow widened her eyes at the baker's wife and gave an exaggerated gasp.

"Mathilde!" she exclaimed, bouncing the girl on her hip. "Did you steal this from your mother and father?"

Mathilde only smiled sheepishly. Sparrow let out another exaggerated gasp.

"Mathilde! Why, Madame Blanche, I suspect you'll be giving her a proper scolding."

At once, Mathilde wiggled her way loose and ran to her mother. "Oh, Maman, please!"

Madame Blanche laughed, though Sparrow could tell she was trying to look stern. "Go inside, Mathilde."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Inside! I want to talk with Mademoiselle. Go — let the grown-ups talk."

Pouting, Mathilde stomped around the corner.

"You and Mademoiselle Enjolras do spoil her a bit," Madame Blanche said with a laugh.

Sparrow smiled and held out her arms to relieve Madame Blanche of her baby. "All children deserve to be spoiled a little bit."

"Were you?"

Sparrow shrugged. "At times, I suppose."

Madame Blanche laughed. "I have some information that might be of interest to you," she said, handing over the baby.

"Ah, see? You spoil me with your gossiping."

"I prefer to call it friendly advice. It's no mortal sin. Now," she said, putting an arm around Sparrow and leading her towards the bakery, "tell me: what do you know of a Monsieur Xavier Girard?"

Sparrow's eyes widened. "Xavier Girard? I think I met him once, maybe a month or two back. But I know no more of him than his name. Why?"

Madame Blanche smiled deviously. "People forget a baker has ears, you know."

"Blanche!"

"Well, his maman was in here the other day with Madame LaRoux. The older LaRoux girl — Isabelle, I think — has apparently been after the young Monsieur Girard since they were children. And Madame LaRoux, she says, 'Your Xavier, he's a good man,' right? And then, 'I'd be lying if I didn't think he'd make a good match for my Isabelle.' And now that's all very typical — they're in about once a week, always gossiping about which fine lady should go with which fine gentleman — but then Madame Girard laughed, Mademoiselle! Laughed and said that she did, too, but Xavier wouldn't hear of it. And, of course, Madame LaRoux got all uppity and asked what issue Xavier had with  _her_  Isabelle. And Madame Girard said he could not stop talking about the new Enjolras girl. Apparently, he met this so called Mademoiselle Sparrow and was utterly taken with her!"

Sparrow could only let out a gasp. "Oh, Blanche, no!"

"Well, you can imagine how upset Madame LaRoux was," Madame Blanche finished laughing. "Oh, are you sure you only met him once?"

Sparrow nodded. "He asked if I dropped my glove. And then Simone pulled me away, I swear it! Other than that, it's only been a nod when I've passed him!"

Again, Blanche laughed. "Well, you must have made quite the impression!"

"Do you think I ought to say something?"

"Have you another suitor?"

Sparrow shook her head. "I hardly know anyone." She sighed as Blanche took back the baby.

"Well, you don't need to look so sad about it. He's a good man, I hear."

"But I hardly know him!"

Madame Blanche shook her head. "You worry too much. I only meant to amuse you."

"Well, it's made me think, so let's have that count for something."

Madame Blanche laughed again. "Well, you keep thinking on it. Honestly, it's quite a surprise that more girls in town haven't lost their beaux to you — of no fault of your own, of course!"

Sparrow blushed furiously. "Why? I'm nothing special and I don't want them anyway."

"Say what you will, mademoiselle. You're new and mysterious and men like that. They want to claim you."

It was Sparrow's turn to laugh. "Claim me? Why, then they've lost already. Do they honestly think I want to be claimed?"

"Men are fools, Mademoiselle Sparrow. One day, you'll marry and learn that."

"Oh, I'm well aware. I just continuously try to convince myself otherwise."

"Ha! Well, you'll only set yourself up for disappointment."

Sparrow snorted. "I'm sure I'll learn eventually." She sighed and looked out the window.

"Who knows?" Madame Blanche said. "He could end up being a lovely match." She smirked as she walked across the shop to set the baby in its cot.

Sparrow blinked, looking back from the window. "I don't think so," she said with a laugh. "I don't trust men who fancy me."

"Is that why you're running?"

Sparrow's surprise must have shown on her face because Madame Blanche put her hands on her hips and said, "Uneducated doesn't mean daft, mademoiselle. And don't get cross with Mademoiselle Simone. She hasn't said a word to me. But you're new, popped up from nowhere, without a name or anything. So people speculate — don't looked so shocked."

Sparrow allowed herself to sit on one of the bakery's few stools. "What do they say?" she asked, her voice high and soft.

Madame Blanche smiled warmly. "Nothing to terrible. Madame Martin — she owns the dress shop around the corner — she said maybe you were an illegitimate of Monsieur Enjolras, but everyone else thinks that's a bit foolish. A few say you're maybe the mistress of his nephew — the one that was killed in the rebellion. But I knew the boy. I don't think he gave a care for anyone. And I know what you say — that Monsieur Enjolras and your papa were friends and he's taking you in."

"But you don't believe that," Sparrow said before Madame Blanche could continue.

"No."

"So what do you think?" she asked in a whisper.

Madame Blanche dropped her hands to her sides. "I think you just told me, mademoiselle."

"Oh?"

"You don't trust men, you say. So someone gave you a reason not to and you left. You somehow got here, they found you, and took you in because they're truly good people. I respect that." Sparrow looked up, surprised. "I'm not gonna judge you, mademoiselle. It doesn't matter much to me where you're from. You're here now, aren't you?"

For a moment, Sparrow was very quiet. "Thank you," she said at last.

Madame Blanche sat down beside her. "Don't thank me. I might be as a bad a gossip as anyone, but I do like you, Mademoiselle Sparrow. I don't care where you're from."

"Why?"

"Because it's not my job to judge. Look, I'm not the only gossip in this town. Mademoiselle Enjolras is trying to protect you, I think. But you don't need it. So I figured I'd tell you what people are saying."

"In case Monsieur Girard attempts to pursue me?"

"It would make a delightful story."

Sparrow laughed at that. "Well, we wouldn't want life to become too boring, would we?" But despite her laughter, Sparrow could not help but pray that life remained as boring as it could. As long as life was boring, she told herself, she might be able to stay. She had been so annoyed when Simone first stopped Xavier Girard from flirting with her, but it would have been foolish to expect anything else. She was no one — she could never be courted or married or truly give herself to anyone. "I should go," she said, before she could overthink the matter further. "Let me pay for the cake Mathilde took."

Madame Blanch shook her head. "Don't worry about it. But tell me — did it work?"

"Did what work?"

"The recipe! Mademoiselle Simone said she wanted to try her hand at baking."

"Oh!" Sparrow laughed. "It was a disaster, actually. We made an awful mess."

Madame Blanche laughed. "Oh, I'd have paid to see that! Your Mademoiselle Simone is an ambitious one. Give her my regards, won't you?"

"Of course. Good-day, Madame." She craned her neck to look into the back of the shop. "Goodbye, Mathilde! Théo!" And, with a smile, she left. She went straight to the bookstore, not wanting to dawdle and find herself lost in her own thoughts. She had yet to determine what to get Sebastien for his birthday. Perhaps she'd find something in the bookshop. She was certain you could fulfill anyone's heart's content in there. She had only been there once, briefly with Simone, but she loved it. It was a beautiful mess of a place, absolutely littered with books.

The shop was almost empty when she went in. The owner didn't seem to notice her, he was too wrapped up in organizing a shelf. She sighed, content, and allowed herself to meander through the maze of books.

"May I help you, mademoiselle?" She spun around. Clearly, the owner had noticed her, for the small old man with bright blue eyes was smiling at her. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

Sparrow stared at him, too startled by his presence to answer.

He laughed. "Tell me, my dear, what is it you most like to read?"

Sparrow bit her lip, unsure of how to respond. Part of her wanted to say "everything," but, as much as it pained her to admit her own struggle, she wanted something she could read on her own, not a big philosophy book that required awkward conversations with Sebastien when he knew she was asking about more than just his opinion. But the man didn't appear to need an answer, for he began walking and beckoned Sparrow to follow him.

"I believe you want something bold. A novel, perhaps."

"A novel?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow at his back.

The man let out such a great, deep laugh that she was surprised it didn't split open his slight body. "I've got a girl about your own age, mademoiselle. She gets the same tone as you when I bring her a novel. But even in novels you find philosophy and reason, science and incredulity."

Sparrow straightened, taken aback. "I never said anything about philosophy," she said.

"No, but I find most ladies who detest novels prefer philosophy. It makes them feel superior. But I'll tell you a secret. My one girl reads only philosophy. The other reads only romances and is far too coquettish for my liking. But neither is better than the other."

Sparrow bit her lip again, unsure of whether or not to be offended.

"You've read Wollstonecraft, I presume." It was not a question.

Sparrow nodded, but the man was too busy rummaging through a pile of books to take notice. "Yes, monsieur," she said aloud.

"And what of Shelley?"

"Who?"

"Mary Shelley, her daughter. And English writer."

Sparrow flushed. "I can't read English."

The owner smiled. "Well, read it in French. They pay men to translate books, you know."

Sparrow took the book and ran her fingers over the title. "What's it about?"

"A bit of everything. People have found it troubling, frightening even."

Sparrow grinned. "Good."

"Is there anything else you were looking for?"

Sparrow rocked back on her heels. "Yes," she said slowly. "But I'm not sure what. What do you buy for the person who has read everything?"

The man let out another great laugh. "I don't think anyone's read everything, mademoiselle."

"This one has."

The owner seemed to consider her and, for a moment, Sparrow was scared that she has said too much. They hadn't heard anything from Paris for months. Sebastien was assumed dead to all who had once known him and Monsieur Mathieu had made her and Simone both promise to keep his presence a secret. But the man didn't seem to care much about who her gift was for, for he suddenly straightened up with a loud "Ah! A moment, please, mademoiselle," and hurried off.

Sparrow stood there, book in her hand.  _Frankenstein_ , the cover read,  _or; The Modern Prometheus._ She didn't recognize that last word, but was certain Sebastien would not judge her for asking. Slowly, she sounded the word out.

"Well, that will be a frightful story, I'm sure."

Sparrow jumped at the sound of the voice. A young man stood behind her, tall and slender, peering down out her over a long nose. "Have you read it?" she asked, holding the book out before her.

The man shook his head. "But based on that title, I'd wager it's too frightful for such a small girl."

Sparrow smiled politely and and pulled the book to her chest. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, monsieur. This one was  _written_  by a woman."

He let out a chuckle. "Oh, is it?"

Sparrow took a step back. "Indeed, monsieur."

There was a shuffle behind her as the owner returned and Sparrow let out a breath she hadn't been consciously holding.

"Here you are, mademoiselle," he said, holding out a red, leather-bound book. "For the one who's read everything."

Excited, she gratefully accepted the book and opened it. "It's blank!"

"Well, the person who has read everything must very well write something new."

Sparrow grinned. "Well said. I'll take them both." She turned and gave the other man a brief curtsy before following the owner back to the front of the shop. A minute later, she walked back into the sunlight, certain she had found Sebastien the perfect gift. With her basket filled and her coin purse lighter, she set out to return home.

"Mademoiselle!" The young man from the bookstore was running into the streets, his dark eyes blinking in the sunlight. He stopped before her, a smile upon his face.

"May I help you?"

He grinned. "You're Mathieu Enjolras' ward or something of the sort, aren't you?"

Sparrow nodded. "Monsieur Enjolras has taken me in, yes."

He took her hand and kissed it with a boyish wink. "I've known Simone since were were small. She's friends with my sister, Isabelle. I'm Antoine. Antoine LaRoux."

Sparrow bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Isabelle LaRoux had been a name she didn't recognize on its own, but Isabelle and Antoine — she knew both names and was certain "friend" was a kinder word than what Simone would use. "Of course," she said. "How lovely to meet you."

"This book," Antoine said, grabbing  _Frankenstein_  from her basket. "Is it for you to read?" He flipped through the pages, scanning the text.

"Yes."

"And odd choice." He smiled and returned the book to the basket. With a laugh, he continued. "I'm trying to imagine you, sitting among flowers, reading your monster book. It's a peculiar sight."

"Why?"

"'Why?!' Well, flowers and monsters don't mix."

Sparrow clutched her basket. "I'm quite afraid to inform you that flowers have no eyes, Monsieur LaRoux," she said coolly. "A book among flowers would be odd indeed."

"Oh, you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't."

Her breath stopped as he placed a hand on her cheek. "A darling little flower like yourself, Mademoiselle Sparrow, shouldn't fill her mind with monster stories."

She didn't ask how he knew her name — after all, Blanche had told her that she was becoming a topic of conversation. Rather, she merely said, "I don't believe I've given you permission to be so forward," and took a step back.

"Oh, come now!" he laughed. "You needn't be so prim."

She took another step back. "I am no flower," she said, refusing to break his eye contact. But he took another step towards her and said with a too friendly smile:

"No?" His face was too close and she leaned backwards.

"Flowers," she said, "might be lovely, delicate things, but they get plucked from their homes to shrivel up and die, likely because they weren't pretty enough, got forgotten about, and then stepped on." She took another step back. "So perhaps you are right, monsieur, and women are just flowers after all."

"You think you're quite clever, don't you?" And, to her surprise, he held out his arm. "I'm off to the park, Mademoiselle — oh, whatever shall I call you?" But she glared at him and he continued without pressing for a response. "Very well, Mademoiselle whatever, then. Won't you join me?"

She shook her head. "I really ought to go home."

"Do come! I'll be so bored alone."

"I really should go. They'll worry about me." She turned to go before he could speak again, but her reached forward and took her wrist. She dropped her basket to the ground in surprise.

"Please?"

"Let go of me," she said, and was ashamed at how soft her voice was.

"It's a lovely day, it would be a shame not to go for a walk." He pulled her back to him. "You're cooped up far too much."

She wanted to kick up, to scream, to pull back her arm. But she couldn't bring herself to move. She just stood there staring at him. He smiled.

"See there. I won't hurt you." He bent forward and kissed her cheek, the edge of his mustache scraping the corner of her lip. At once, she began to sob. Not any sort of soft and quiet tears, but a loud and choking sob, her entire body shaking. Antoine immediately backed away.

"Mademoiselle, what's wrong?" came the unfamiliar voice of an older woman. "Did you hurt this girl?"

"Not at all," Antoine exclaimed, and put an arm around her. Sparrow let out a loud wail and stumbled backwards. Though a part of her was scolding herself for sobbing over unwanted advances (of which she had had much worse), she hadn't been so terrified, so uncomfortable, in a long time. In fact, the girl called Sparrow had never been so scared. For the first time, she thought she might faint.

"Mademoiselle Sparrow?" This voice was much softer than Antoine LaRoux's. She opened her eyes and Xavier Girard stood before her, holding out a handkerchief.

She had never been so happy to see a near stranger.

"Why, Antoine, Monsieur Girard, what's going on?" A pretty girl with dark curls pushed her way through the growing crowd. Sparrow blushed with embarrassment.

"Mademoiselle Sparrow's just had a fright, that's all," Xavier said, pushing is handkerchief into Sparrow's hands.

"Mademoiselle Sparrow?" And Sparrow could feel the girl's eyes examining her.

"Leave her be, Isabelle." Even the sound of his voice brought tears back to her eyes. "She's merely a child."

"Mademoiselle Sparrow." Xavier's voice was soft when he spoke. "Mademoiselle, why don't you let me walk you home?"

"I thought we were going riding!"

But Xavier shook his head. "Come, now, Mademoiselle LaRoux, we can go tomorrow."

"What if it rains?"

"It's fine," Sparrow said, before anyone else could speak. "Don't worry about me. I'll walk myself home."

"Nonsense!" Xavier turned to the LaRoux siblings. "I'll call tomorrow. Good-day." Without another word, he began walking, expecting Sparrow to keep pace.

Sparrow did walk, but did not stop at Xavier. Head held high, she kept walking. She didn't need an escort to take her home.

"Mademoiselle Sparrow!"

"Go for your ride, Monsieur Girard," she said without turning around. "I can see myself home."

"You forgot your basket."

Sparrow turned around and snatched the basket from his outstretched hands. "Thank you," she said quickly. "And good-day."

"You're upset."

"And thus I'm going home." She picked up her pace, biting down hard on her lips to keep from crying. She could still hear Xavier walking behind her, but could tell he was keeping his distance, debating between being a gentleman and giving her some privacy. It was not worth her time to tell him to leave. Shaking her head, she walked faster and faster, biting her lip until the taste of her own blood lined her mouth.

And then she froze.

She bit her lips constantly — it was a horrible habit Simone constantly teased her about. And quite frequently, she bit them until they bled. It never bothered her. But now the metallic taste filled her mouth and it took all she had not to fall over. She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket any immediately began rubbing out her mouth. Again, she began to sob. She just wanted to go home.

"Mademoiselle!" Xavier had caught up to her and she could see the confusion and panic in his face. "Mademoiselle, you're bleeding."

"I just want to go home," she choked out, uncaring that she sounded like a child. "I just want to go home."

"Let me walk you." And when he held out his arm, she took it. He walked briskly, allowing her to set the pace. For several moments, he even allowed her silence. And then, "Did he kiss you?"

"I'm sorry?" Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him flush.

"I'm not trying to be too bold or forward," he said quickly. "I'm sorry if you thought even for a moment I was. It's only…well, Antoine — Monsieur LaRoux — has quite a reputation he constantly seeks to uphold. He doesn't like anyone doubting him or insulting him. He and Mademoiselle Enjolras have had some issues in the past, you see."

"Yes," Sparrow said softly. "He tried to kiss her and she bit him. She's told me."

"Yes, well, it's all his reputation. There had been a rumor that Monsieur LaRoux meant to propose. We all knew it was false, but Mademoiselle Enjolras was quite vocal to anyone who asked her about it that she would never accept. So he kissed her."

"Why?"

"Because he's a man. He can kiss who he pleases and no one will say a word. But if a woman even looks at a man…well, I'm sure you know how people will react."

"So he wanted Simone to kiss him back and ruin her reputation."

"Precisely."

"And why would he want to ruin me?"

For a moment, Xavier was very quiet. And then he said, "I'm afraid that would be my fault. There was a rumor about Mademoiselle LaRoux and myself."

"I see."

They fell back into silence, walking comfortable for several minutes until they reached the Enjolras house. Sparrow quickly extracted her arm.

"Thank you," she said, forcing herself to smile. "Good-day."

"I'll walk you to the door."

But Sparrow shook her head. "I'd like a minute to myself, if you don't mind." With that, she turned and left, leaving him staring at her as she approached the house and was pulled inside by an anxiously waiting Simone.

"Where on Earth have you been?" Her eyes were wide as she pulled Sparrow into the front hall.

"I told you — I had to get Sebastien a gift for his birthday."

"You've been crying." She reached to pull Sparrow's handkerchief from her basket and gasped, realizing it was spotted in blood. When she found her voice, it was so low in terror and worry that Sparrow could hardly hear her. "Darling, what happened?"

"I - I met Antoine LaRoux today."

Simone embraced her, kissing her cheek. "Damn that boy to Hell. I swear, he's evil incarnate. Come, come inside. 'Bastien's in the library."

It was all Sparrow could do not to race through the halls and throw herself at him. But she walked slowly, allowing her face to recover. Outside the door, she set down her basket and pulled out the red leather book.

"Are you ready?" Simone asked.

Sparrow nodded and opened the door. "Happy birthday!" she exclaimed, walking straight for where Sebastien sat on the couch. She sat beside him and pressed the book into his hands.

He smiled as he ran his fingers over the cover. "And what have we here?"

"I was at the bookstore and didn't know what to get you because I can't think of something you haven't read. You've absorbed all the words in this world and now you can give them back."

Though she grinned at him, and though her pride showed on her fast, Sebastien could see something was wrong. Her smiled was pulled just too wide, her eyebrows raised in desperation. He took her hand.

"It's perfect. My favorite color." But when he reached for her hand, he saw the tension run through her body, the way her shoulders curved back and her breath stopped on her lips. Immediately, he withdrew his hand. "Did something happen today, Sparrow?"

But she could not speak and was grateful when Simone said, "She met Antoine LaRoux." The couch sank as Simone sat on her other side. "What did he say, Sparrow? What's said here won't leave and I hate him anyway."

Sparrow shook her head, hating herself for the way her emotions were taking over. "Nothing, not really. Just normal things, things I hate. He called me a flower."

Sebastien gave a small smile at that remark. "Doesn't he know you're a bird? Far, far above his head."

But Sparrow did not return the smile. "He wanted me to join him on a walk to the park. And I just wanted to come home. I just wanted to come home. I - I just wanted - I just wanted…" She broke down, her eyes squeezing shut. Oh, it felt so silly to cry over such a thing. He wanted to walk in the park. But she hadn't and he kept asking and his hands were so cold.

When she opened her eyes again, she was leaning again Sebastien's chest and Simone knelt at their feet, clutching Sparrow's hands between her own. With seemingly endless tears dripping down her face, she looked up at Sebastien. "He grabbed me," she whispered. "I tried to go and he grabbed my wrist and I don't know what came over me! But, I was so frightened. I was so, so frightened. And I feel silly now because I don't think he would have hurt me."

"You're not silly, my dear." Monsieur Mathieu had entered the room. "No, he wouldn't have hurt you. But you are no fool. Come here."

Simone squeezed her hand as she stood. Mathieu held out his hands and Sparrow took them, still trembling as she looked her benefactor in the eye. "I'm afraid I've gone and ruined Sebastien's birthday."

But Mathieu only smiled. "That, my dear, is silly. But I need you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"If anybody, man or woman, is too forward with you in a way that leaves you even the slightest bit frightened, you must cry. You must scream and you must cry. If they want to call it womanly weakness, let them. But it is never foolish to avoid those we fear would do us harm." He squeezed her hands before turning his attention to where his daughter and nephew sat, still startled, on the couch. "Come, now. Dinner's ready and we wouldn't want Sebastien's birthday feast to go cold."

Sebastien laughed as he stood. "You make me sound like a child, uncle."

"Twenty-three is still a child to me." He offered Sparrow his arm, and the four went to dinner.

Mathieu had not exaggerated when he called their meal a feast. And though Simone and Mathieu ate merrily, Sebastien found himself distracted.

"Is the chicken to your liking?" he whispered to Sparrow, who, though she too frequently gorged herself on chicken, had barely eaten a bite. Rather, she sat moving her fork around her plate, shuffling food from side to side, her eyes downcast.

"Oh," she exclaimed, startled by his question. "Yes, quite delicious indeed." But she made no move to eat more.

So Sebastien spent the rest of the meal quietly examining her. When coffee was brought around, he said in an undertone, "You should go to sleep."

But Sparrow smiled brightly (though he noted that the shine didn't reach her eyes) and replied, "Nonsense! It's only a quarter past nine. Anyway, it's your birthday and I won't abandon you."

Sebastien shook his head. "I'm just going to sit and read for a short while and then go to be by myself. You look exhausted. And I know you wanted to ride tomorrow."

"Really, Sparrow," Simone said from across the table. "If it's 'Bastien's birthday wish that you get a decent night's sleep, you ought to do it."

But Sebastien saw the way her hands began to tremble and shot Simone a harsh glare. "I have to go get my book from upstairs," he said softly. "I'll walk you up."

Sparrow nodded, and Sebastien wondered for a moment if she might be sick, but she stood and took his right elbow with her left hand and allowed him to lead her upstairs.

"I lied to you," she said as soon as they started up the stairs. "I don't sleep. I can't."

Sebastien nodded, bring his left hand to cover hers. "Me neither."

She rested her head against his shoulder as they walked. "What's to become of me?"

He stopped in front of her door. "Many amazing things, I know. I'm sure." He sighed and shook his head. "Are you sure you're well?"

"Yes, only a bit tired." He didn't believe her at all.

"Nothing more happened that you want to tell me about?"

She shook her head. "Have you read  _Frankenstein_?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes, a thrilling story."

"I got my own copy today. Will I like it?"

He smiled. "Certainly."

"It's not too much?"

"Too much what?"

Sparrow just shrugged. "Too much for a girl. For me."

"I think there is very little in this world that is too much for the likes of you."

"Antoine LaRoux called me a delicate flower."

"Antoine LaRoux is a fool. You'd think a womanizer might know something about women, but I am certain that that man knows nothing about anything."

Sparrow nodded. "Then I'm sure I will enjoy it very much." She opened the door. "Good-night, Sebastien. I hope you had a happy birthday."

"The happiest," he said, smiling softly as she shut the door. He walked slowly to his own room. There hadn't been a book. In fact, he had no intention of reading. He had thought he would have sat in the library with Sparrow and Simone, Simone perhaps would have read out loud. But something was wrong, far more so than Sparrow was letting on. He returned to the dining room, where his uncle and cousin greeted him with worried faces.

"You don't think Antoine did anything to her?" Simone said, her eyes wide with worry. "More terrible than normal, I mean."

Sebastien sat down and shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so, I don't want to think so. I think that she would have said something."

"She's been jumpy lately. More so than she used to be. I do worry about her."

Mathieu took a sip of his drink as his daughter spoke. "We all worry about her, Simone, my dear. And perhaps some days it's justified. What do you think, Sebastien? Do we need to worry about our dear bird flying away from us?"

He and Simone waited in patient silence as Sebastien thought over his answer. In truth, he had no idea. Was he certain that Sparrow spent far more time than he would like contemplating leaving them? Of course, he was. But he seriously had somehow renewed his faith and he prayed to whatever divinity there was that she would stay. He hoped that she loved him enough — and his family, too — to stay. Or at the very least, she would not leave without warning. "I don't know," he said at last. "I think there are times when she wants to, but I know she is reasonable. And I think she would feel guilty leaving here."

Mathieu nodded solemnly. "I pray you are right."

The conversation ended there, though Sebastien could tell that Simone wanted to continue, if only to coax a sign of affection from her cousin. They finished their coffee in silence. When they stood from the table, Simone broke the silence.

"Papa," she said, and Sebastien feared the sweetness of her tone. "Do you remember when we were children, 'Bastien and I, and you would read to us in the evenings?"

Mathieu laughed. "Of course."

"Perhaps you would read aloud tonight."

"I'm sure that the ideal birthday of a man of twenty-three doesn't include being read to by his aging uncle."

"I shouldn't mind," Sebastien said quickly. It was peculiar, he knew, but it would allow him to sit undisturbed and think. There would be little chance of being interrogated by Simone, or have her find ways to add to his worry.

Mathieu sighed. "Very well, then. What shall I read my darling children?"

Simone giggled and took her father's arm. Sebastien never heard what was decided upon. It didn't matter to him. He followed them silently into the library and sat himself down in Sparrow's chair. He was vaguely aware of Simone smirking, but she said nothing. And Sebastien was allowed to lose himself in thought. When he had been in Paris, there had been nights when he had slept soundly. Not every night, but some of them. But since arriving at his uncle's house, he doubted that he had had a single night when he had slept peacefully. He could scarcely remember feeling well-rested. But he feared Sparrow's nights were worse than his own. He slept, though fitfully. He put his head to his pillow and welcomed those few moments of peace before terror began. And then he would be there, back at the barricade. Only it was different. He was searching and searching and, though he dreamed the same dream each night, he never knew what he was searching for. Until he found her. She stood atop the barricade and seemed to repel all the bullets and debris that came towards her. At first, he always thought she was smiling, standing there in that pink satin dress, the one Simone insisted she never wore. The one she said reminded her of a fairy princess. But as he got closer, he would see the terror on her face, blood blossoming over her breast. And just when he was close enough to reach out for her, she would scream. Sometimes it was a name that was not his (though he could never make out what). But more often than not, she just screamed and screamed and, however much he extended his arm, he could never reach her. And he would wake, sweating and shaking. And he would wander the halls, checking in on his family — listening at Mathieu's door to his snoring, as he did at Simone's. But Sparrow, Sparrow was always singing. At first, he wondered if it was a peculiarity of hers, to sing in her sleep as Simone snored. But he quickly realized that he was wrong. She didn't sing in her sleep, she sang to prevent it. She didn't even try to sleep. She feared it too much. He wanted to tell her that it was safe to dream, they could not hurt her. But he knew that was a lie. There was nothing he could do to help her.

He looked at the clock. Ten-thirty. He would wait until eleven, he decided, and then he would go to sleep. Even Simone, who prided herself on how late she stayed up, looked ready to fall asleep to the steady rhythm of her father's voice and the patter of the rain against the window.

"Papa!"

The shriek was so sudden that Mathieu dropped his book and so shrill that the hair stood up on the back of Sebastien's neck. And it did not stop. Terrified screams pierced through the stillness of the night and Sebastien was quickly on his feet, sprinting to Sparrow's room.

She sat pressed against her headboard, eyes wide open, screaming and screaming at something only she could see. Tears streamed down her face as she screamed for the father she no longer had. He sat down beside her, away from her kicking, struggling feet. But when he reached for her hands, she only sobbed harder. He called her name, but she was far away, where no one could reach her.

"Sparrow, Sparrow, look at me. Sparrow, you're safe." He looked helplessly at his uncle, who whispered something to a terrified Simone. She nodded and hurried off as Mathieu came to Sparrow's bedside.

"Sparrow, my dear, it's time to wake up now."

But his words were lost on her, for she only continued to fight and scream, her desperate wail of "I want Papa!" so heart wrenching that Sebastien felt tears well in his own eyes.

"What do I do?"

Mathieu shook his head. "Simone did this as child - it scared Elizabeth to tears. We could normally wake her by calling her name a few times, but..."

The rest didn't need saying. Sparrow had no name. He took her face in his hands, but that only seemed to terrify her more. A moment later, Simone pushed past, shushing the others and pressing a wet cloth the Sparrow's forehead. For a moment, it seemed to calm her, but again she began to scream.

"It's alright, it's alright," Sebastien sad, holding her tightly to him in spite of her struggling. With a final glance at his uncle, he scooped Sparrow up and carried her straight out of her room, her kicking and screaming only made him hold her tighter. But despite her tears, her scratching and cries, he held her close until they were in the yard. He dropped her legs to the ground, but still held her, allowing the gentle rain to wash over them. "You're safe, you're safe."

After several minutes of struggling, she eventually calmed against him. First, she went limp, still in the throws of sleep. Her breath grew calmer and her arms snaked her way around him. He listened as she tried to catch her breath.

"Sebastien?"

"I'm here."

For a few moments, she clutched his shirt, and then, suddenly, she let out a small gasp, pulled away from him, and turned away, falling to her knees before vomiting into the grass. She rolled back, sitting on her heels, shaking and sobbing. Quietly, Sebastien knelt behind her, pulling her hair back behind her shoulders with one hand and rubbing her back with the other. When she was finished, he pulled her back so that she was leaning against him, her head tilted back against his shoulder, her faced tilted up towards the cooling rain.

"I suppose I have ruined your birthday now," she said in a small voice, her voice hoarse from screaming.

He buried his face on the top of her head. "Don't be silly. I'm only glad you're safe."

"Safe."

He nodded and turned to glance back inside. Simone and Mathieu stood at the window, Simone waving for them to come back in. He took a deep breath and asked, "Can you stand?"

Though Sparrow nodded and pushed herself up, Sebastien could feel her trembling and quickly picked her up and cradled her against his chest. This time, she didn't struggle. She just pressed her cheek against him, listening to his calming voice. She couldn't even make out the words, but they didn't matter. She just held tightly onto him as he walked into the house. To her surprise (or, rather, what she barely registered) he took her not back upstairs, but into the library, where he sat in her chair and allowed her to curl into a small ball on his lap. She was only vaguely aware of Simone and Mathieu standing in the doorway, looking on in curious worry.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked, stroking back her hair.

"I don't know. I just...I don't even know why I was outside."

"I took you out there. You were having a nightmare of sorts and nothing I could do would wake you. So I brought you into the rain."

Sparrow nodded against him before saying sleepily, "What time is it? Did I wake you?"

Sebastien shook his head. "It's early — not quite eleven. We hadn't gone up yet." He continued to stroke her hair, hoping to calm her trembling. "Do you remember what you dreamt?"

"No," said Sparrow, but she paused long enough before responding to let Sebastien know she was lying. But he didn't press her further. He just nodded at his uncle and cousin, letting them know that he had control and that they were free to go to bed. Seemingly oblivious to the world around her, Sparrow began softly singing, her voice muffled into Sebastien's chest. Softly, he began to hum along with her melody, even once her own voice faded and was replaced with the soft sighs of a peaceful sleep. He kept her close, being the safety she needed, until he too drifted off to sleep.

He woke in the morning, from a magically dreamless sleep, to smell of coffee. Simone sat in her normal spot on the couch, staring at him and Sparrow. When she realized that he had awaken, she rose and approached him, pressing a warm cup into his hand.

"How is she?"

"Sleeping peacefully," he said softly, "which is better than she's been."

"And you?"

"Fine."

"Be honest with me."

"Truly, Mona. I'm fine."

At that moment, Sparrow stirred in Sebastien's lap. Simone straightened up, giving the younger girl room to adjust to the light that was flooding the library. She blinked in the morning light and Sebastien could feel her shaking.

"Are you feeling better?"

Sparrow shook her head. "I'm afraid I've made a fool of myself."

Simone stepped forward and knelt before them. "Nonsense! We're just glad you're alright."

Sparrow nodded and stared at her lap, only just seeming to realize that she had fallen asleep upon Sebastien. She made no move to leave.

"What was haunting you?" Sebastien asked before he could stop himself. Sparrow looked up at him with wide brown eyes and he cupped her cheeks. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. He prayed that she knew she was safe. "I thought we burned our demons."

"I was a child again," she said, her voice so soft that Sebastien had to dip his head to hear her. Simone sat at their feet, her head upon Sparrow's knee. Though she looked at neither, Sparrow pressed herself harder against Sebastien's chest and slipped her hand into Simone's. "I...my brothers had been crying. They — they were at that age, you know, when when one started crying, they all started crying. So Papa said I could go to the bakery and buy them a sweet. Because maybe it would cheer them. I was only a child, but I fancied myself grown. And I went alone. We hadn't been in Paris long, I'd never been out by myself before. I normally went about with one of my parents. But I thought I was big enough to go alone. I made it all the way there by myself. And there was this — this man outside the bakery. And he told me, he said that the baker would take my money and that he knew a cheaper place. So I went." She looked up at Sebastien as her voice broke. "I was only a child," she repeated.

Sebastien kissed the top of her head as Simone squeezed her hand. "I know," he whispered.

"I just wanted him to let go of me. I just wanted to go home. But he wouldn't let me go. I thought he meant to kill me. I was lucky, though. 'Parnasse was there." She grew grew very quiet for a moment before she continued. "He had a gun."

"Parnasse did?"

Sparrow looked down out Simone. "Yes, and he was only a boy. Just a year older than I was or there about."

All three fell into silence again and it lasted several minutes until Sebastien asked, "Was he the one you might have married?"

Sparrow nodded. "I think he wanted to marry me once, yes. But then he tried to kill me, too. He's not there, though. Not when I'm sleeping. No one is. Not even me. I forget me, I forget Sparrow. I'm no bird, I can't just fly away. I'm just a child who knows nothing, who has nothing — no one."

When Sebastien could bring himself to look down, he could see that Simone had buried her face in Sparrow's lap and, by the trembling of her shoulders, knew that she was crying. Sparrow, however, was looking straight ahead, as though she was frightened to risk meeting his eye. When he reached to put his hand on her arm, she flinched. Sebastien shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath.

"Sparrow."

"I'm sorry!"

"Whatever for?"

She shook her head and ran her hand through Simone's hair. "I don't know."

"You have nothing to be sorry for." When Sparrow said nothing, he continued, "You're safe here, little bird. No one will ever hurt you here."

"I know."

"Really," said Simone, finally looking up. "You are so loved here. By all of us. You're our family. And we shall never let anything harm you."

Sparrow nodded and made to stand. Simone rose and helped her to her feet. "I think I should go get dressed."

Simone nodded. "Yes, of course." She wrapped an arm around Sparrow's shoulders and, giving Sebastien a quick nod, escorted Sparrow from the library.

Sebastien watched them go, one hand still clutching his now cold coffee. Part of him wanted to follow the girls, to reiterate Simone's words, to remind Sparrow how loved she was, that if he could spend the rest of his life, trying to keep her safe from her own memories, he would. But he stayed seated. He knew that there was nothing to help her except pray that his presence was as much a comfort to her past traumas as she was to his. With a sigh, he stood and brought his cup to the table before he began to pace the library. No one deserved such trauma, he knew. But to know it was Sparrow, his mysterious Sparrow who had already suffered so much, made it feel so much worse. And he could not help her, however hard he tried. He could not take her memories away, he could not save her.

"Good." Simone had returned. And, evidently, Sebastien had spoken out loud.

"What on Earth is good?"

"You can't save everyone. You ought to know that by now. And as much a bird as you may find her, I assure you that she is very much a woman and does not need you, nor any man, to save her."

"Then what am I to do?"

"Be as you are, 'Bastien! Love her as you do."

"Christ, Simone!" he exclaimed, shocking even himself with his outburst. "She doesn't want my love."

"She doesn't want to feel obligated to love you and she doesn't want you to feel obligated to love her! But I promise you that she loves you very much. And she needs you to only be you."

"What can you even pretend to know about love?"

"Evidently more than you. Look at me, Sebastien! I know as much as you of loving someone who won't love you back. Maybe more because I can actually say it out loud."

Sebastien opened his mouth to retort, but immediately shut it. He knew his cousin was right. Wordlessly, he returned to Sparrow's chair and sat down.

"I can't keep watching her suffer, Mona."

"Me neither. And I know, day by day, I get closer to waking up and finding her bed empty. And if she does leave us —oh, I really pray it's only 'if' — I know deep down that we shall lose her forever. She's not the type to be found if she doesn't want to be. So we must just make her want to stay."

"How? The worse thing to do would be to force her to stay, or make her feel forced."

To that, Simone had no answer. She simply perched herself on the armrest and leaned against her cousin. "She's truly become my sister, Sebastien. I could never let her leave, no more than you could. Even if she refuses to find the words to tells us so, I do believe that she loves with her whole being. And as wicked as she thinks herself to be, I don't think there exists a soul filled with more goodness. Am I selfish for wanting her to stay?"

"Do you believe she's safer here than elsewhere?"

"The man she may have married tried to kill her, Sebastien! All we know is that and that her mother's dead. We don't know who her father is, if he's looking for her. If he'd be kind to her. I know I can't protect her forever, but —"

"But it's as you said: she is not ours to save or protect."

"But she  _is_  ours to love. And isn't it our duty to protect the ones we love?"

"I suppose only as much as they allow it."

"You don't see her out there, Sebastien. You're too afraid to go out there — whether it's the police that frightens you or your reputation, I can't say. No — don't you dare interrupt me! You've never seen her interact with anyone. Everything frightens her. And no wonder! Why, the gall of him to grab her!"

"Antoine?"

"Anyone! I'd kill anyone who ever dared to touch her!"

Sebastien pulled Simone into his lap and held her. "Me too, Mona. Me too."

When Sparrow returned, nothing was said. Sebastien vacated her chair as soon as he heard her in the hall. And though she sat in it, he watched as she left her new book on her lap, unopened. And he couldn't help but feel as though she refused to meet his eyes. He saw as she avoided Simone's as well. He could only speak to her as he always did, to read passages he thought she might enjoy out loud.

And he saw the way Simone clung closer to her father and remembered how his uncle used to joke that all of Simone's snark came from her defense against her overly empathetic nature. And though he was sure that Simone said nothing to Mathieu, he could tell his uncle knew that something had changed that morning.

Everyone was quiet. There was no mention of the plans to teach Sparrow to ride a horse and no mention of the previous night's events. There was only silence as Mathieu periodically checked in on the children (for even Sebastien was still a boy in his mind). There was only the sound of Simone writing at he desk, of Sebastien's pages turning, and of Sparrow's soft breaths. All existing as a reminder that not one of them was alone.

By four that afternoon, Simone had left, adamant about posting her letters herself. Clearing his throat, as though to remind Sparrow of his presence, Sebastien stood and walked over to her chair, kneeling before her.

"You should read it. It's one of my favorites."

Sparrow nodded, but continued to look out the window. "We're not so different, you and I," she said softly.

Sebastien took her hand and was pleased when she squeezed him, unafraid of his touch. "I know."

"But I hear things."

Sebastien cocked his head, confused. "Hear what?"

"You needn't worry so much. Neither should Simone. You see, I'm just as dead to the world as you are. But there were no services for me. My parents didn't don black as yours did, as they probably still are. My father doesn't live in France anymore. He's gone far away, my sister, too. There's no one looking for me, for better or for worse."

Sebastien squeezed her hand tighter and couldn't stop himself from quickly pressing his lips to her white knuckles. "I still want you to stay."

Sparrow reached out, running a hand through his hair. "I know," she told him in a choked voice. "I do too." Then, quickly, she shook her head and clapped her hands together. "Now," she said, the forced cheerfulness of her voice crushing the air from his lungs. "Now you shall let me read to you. You may rest your head against my knee, if you please, like so."

"You are making a child of me."

Sparrow smiled, though, and he could not complain. "Now," she said, " _Frankenstein; or, The Modern_ —"

" _Prometheus_ ," he supplied when she fell silent. "Sometimes the creator of man, always the bringer of fire. Zeus sentenced him to an eternity of having his liver pecked out by an eagle as punishment for giving man fire."

Sparrow opened the book. "I do love the sound of this book already." And she began to read, not stopping until they were called to dinner and starting again immediately after, seated on the couch with an Enjolras cousin on each side. When her voice grew hoarse, they passed the book around, listening to each others' voices and taking comfort in the fact that, at least for now, they were together. And though that night Sebastien would again roam the halls like a ghost and listen to Sparrow soft, off-key singing at her door, he could take comfort in knowing that as long as the songbird carried on with her song, her demons may remain at bay. And, for that, he was thankful.


	14. Freedom's Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: At long, long last! Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter. I'm sorry this took so long -wrapping up college and moving home really took away from my writing time.
> 
> Special thanks to Mel, for being the best beta ever, and Ceara, for scaring me into writing when necessary. <3

He loved the feeling of her breath against his cheek, against his neck. He could feel it when she fell asleep beside him in the library after a long day or in his room deep in the night. He would kiss her temple and she would smile that sleepy smile, and she would talk. It made him laugh, how however tired that girl was, she could always find something to gabber on about. He could wrap his arms around her and she would whisper into his ear. She would tell him about her day, the minutes spent apart and those spent together. He could never remember a word she said, but oh, how fascinating it was to hear her tell of the time that they spent together. How strange to hear a bird's-eye view of his own existence. But she would tell him with her breath carving the words into his skin, a physical reminder that, with each passing moment, their beings grew more and more intertwined. "Is that really what happened?" he could hear himself ask. And she would laugh and kiss his jaw (she was such a lazy thing, far too lazy to find his lips with her own). "You were there," she would tell him and he would pull her to him. She would laugh and he would hush her with a kiss just close enough to her lips and a brush of his thumb along her ankle. She would turn her head to find him, but he would lean back, just out of her reach. "You bastard," she would whisper. Now he would laugh and pull her back, and now it was his breath carving words onto her neck. "You love me," he would whisper, and he knew she was grinning.

 

"You look happy."

Sebastien squinted at Simone's shape in the light and let out a grunt.

"Too happy," she continued. "Blissful, even. It's odd." She sat down at the foot of his bed. "What's wrong?"

Sebastien rolled over onto his stomach, pulling a pillow over his head. "I'm sleeping and you're here."

"It's after nine." She grabbed his foot and he let out a yelp at the coldness of her hands. "Oh, don't be such a baby, old man."

A set of footsteps rounded the corner of the hallway.

"Sparrow!" Simone shouted. "Sparrow, come here!"

Though there was only silence, Sebastien could feel her sigh. It wasn't that they were avoiding each other, not really. They spoke while at the table or in the library with Simone, but it was different. It had stopped feeling like Sparrow and Sebastien. They were just two people proving that even the largest of houses could feel too small.

But the soft footsteps started up again and stopped only with the slight creak of his door.

"Good morning."

"Come and tell me if he looks off to you."

"Is he ill?" and Sebastien felt a sick thrill at the concern in her voice.

But Simone laugh. "He's happy, Sparrow. Happy. I came to wake him and he was smiling in his sleep."

His bed depressed as Sparrow sat beside Simone. "Well, that's good, isn't it? Better than the alternative."

Sebastien sighed. "I think the best alternative would be you leaving so that I could go back to sleep."

Sparrow half-rose, but Simone snorted and pulled her back with a force that bounced Sebastien's feet. "It's a lovely day. No rain, no thunder, not even a cloud yet. It's the first time I've seen the sun in a week. And Sparrow's never ridden a horse. You promised her weeks ago that we'd go riding."

"Simone—"

"You're as bad as he is, Sparrow. Worse, even"

Sebastien felt Simone rise and heard his door creak once more. To his surprise, Sparrow stayed where she was. He kept the pillow over his head and listened as he heard two soft clunks. His bed shifted and, when he turned his head and opened his eyes, he could see Sparrow lying beside him, staring back.

"Do you pity me?" she asked softly.

"I'm sorry?" He could see the tears welling in her wide eyes, prohibited from falling. It had been weeks, weeks since he had held her out in the rain. He hadn't seen her cry since. He knew she did, he could hear her when he passed her room at night. But he never saw her cry.

"After that night," Sparrow began, "after your birthday…It's different." She trailed off, unsure of what to say, but Sebastien knew there was some strange truth to whatever she might say next. Since his birthday, things had changed. At first, they were fine. They were Sparrow and Sebastien and they took care of each other. But then, once again, Sparrow grew distant. It had become a slow, sad pattern: there would be an incident of some kind, one of them would have an emotional breakdown and the other would comfort them until the world seemed right again. For a short while, whether it be hours or days, things would be normal and they would survive on the love and gratitude one bore for the other. And then one day, one of them, typically the one who feared they may have showed too much emotion, would back away, they would speak to each other only when necessary. Their feelings once again became hidden things, for they feared that each revelation of feeling revealed too much to the other. Sparrow shook her head and pressed her face deeper into Sebastien's sheets. They smelled like him.

"The way you look at me," Sparrow said. "Am I so sad to deserve your pity? Do you find me so pathetic?"

"Sparrow." Sebastien pushed himself upright and stared back down at her. "I…I…" He sighed and reached down, placing his hand on her check. Sparrow shut her eyes.

"I won't," she whispered. "I won't cry. I will not cry. Just…tell me honestly if you pity me."

Sebastien shook his head and pushed her hair from her face. "I don't pity you. I feel compassionate when I see you. I feel sympathetic. But if you don't want pity, I won't pity you. It's only…" he trailed off.

"Only you do?"

Again, Sebastien shook his head. "I look at you, little bird, and I know that you're scared. You never admit it, but I can see it. I don't know what you're scared of. There are days when I worry it's me and—"

"Sebastien!" He held up his hand and forced himself to smile.

"Please, let me finish."

Sparrow nodded.

"There are moments," he continued, "when I worry I scare you because I don't know what scares you and I don't know what to do to make you less scared. So, no, Sparrow. I don't pity you. I just sometimes pity myself. Because you're not a child who needs my protection. If you're scared, you're scared and you have your own reasons for being scared. And I shouldn't be angry or upset with you for being scared." Sparrow opened her mouth to speak, but Sebastien had started and now that the words were falling, he didn't know how to stop them. "I hate myself sometimes because I can't fix you."

Sparrow sat up. "I don't need fixing."

"I know, I know! You don't need to be fixed and, even if you did, I couldn't fix you. Only you could. But when I see you, I'm just sad that I can't make you less sad or less scared."

Sparrow stared at him. For a very long time, she sat there and stared at him. People break sometimes. She had known that her whole life. People are fragile and people break. And sometimes they got better and sometimes they stayed broken. But that was up to them. And, for a fleeting moment, she hated Sebastien. She hated him for looking at her and knowing how broken she was. She hated him for wanted to repair her. But, at the same time, she understood. How often, in her far-off childhood, had she seen people break? And how often had she done everything she could to fix them, even when she knew that all she could really do was pray that they would come to and fix themselves? How hateful she felt, in hating him. And how wicked must she be to allow him to think she feared him.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, reaching forward and grabbing his hand. "Not even a little and I never will be. I'm scared of me, sometimes. And I'm scared of other things. But not of you. And being scared frightens me even more because I never used to let myself be scared of anything. Sometimes I felt afraid, but I was good at being brave. And I'm trying to be that way again."

Sebastien squeezed her hand. There was too much and too little more to say.

"Now!" Sparrow forced a smile and squeezed back. "Now, you were happy and I've gone and ruined it."

Sebastien laughed. "No, Simone ruined it. I was happy in my sleep."

"That's good. It means you were sleeping."

"I suppose, yes."

"Were you dreaming pleasant dreams?"

"Quite so."

"What of?"

Sebastien stared at her for a moment and released her hand. "Bliss, I suppose."

"Bliss," Sparrow repeated, and closed her eyes. "I'll have to steal some, I guess." She opened her eyes and winked. "Simone wanted to go out today, I don't think we should keep her waiting."

Sebastien watched as she rose and went to the door. "I've got time," he said. "It'll take nearly an hour for you to put up your hair."

But Sparrow shook her head. "Have you seen the paintings of women on horses?"

Sebastien laughed. "There are hundreds. Thousands, perhaps."

"Some of them have their hair down. And it looks so free."

"And you've never ridden a horse before."

Sparrow shook her head. "Does it really feel that free?"

Sebastien smiled. "Leave, little bird. Leave and let me dress. And then you can find out."

—

It didn't feel free. She started shaking as soon as Sebastien lifted her onto the horse and didn't stop until she was safely on the ground again. She spent the whole ride with her face pressed into Sebastien's back, her arms unwilling to ever relinquish his waist.

"I need to get down," she demanded as soon as the horse had stopped. Sebastien had the reins in one hand and brought the other to his waist and took her wrists.

"It's alright," he told her. "Let go of me and you can get down."

She had refused to do so until Simone had taken the reins.

"I'll walk home, I think."

Simone had laughed at that. "Perhaps Sebastien and I can just give you our share of the wine. You'll be drunk and sleep the whole ride home."

"I think I'd only be sick." She sat down in the grass, taking only a few deep breaths before lying down. She rolled over onto her side and inhaled. "I missed spring."

Sebastien sat down beside her. "I suppose it's been about a year." Both he and Simone laughed, but Sparrow shook her head.

"It's different," she said, "in the city. It's not really spring there. Maybe if you have time for leisure. You can go to the gardens and have spring." She looked up at them. "I think I was a girl last time I had spring."

"Spring is nice," Simone said. "But summer is better."

Sparrow shook her head. "Too hot."

"Bah! The creek where we skated? It's lovely for a swim in the summer."

"I've never swam before."

"Well, you'll learn." Simone bent down and grabbed Sparrow's hand. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise." She turned to Sebastien. "You stay here, old man."

Sebastien shrugged. "Should I give all the old man orders, too? Stay safe and the like?"

Sparrow laughed as she pulled herself up. "Enjoy the air, Sebastien," she said. "We're free now, remember?"

With that, the two girls ran off. Or, rather, Simone ran with her hand tight around Sparrow's and the younger girl stumbled along with her. For several minutes, there was no sound but the wind blowing through the trees and the birds overhead. They were in the woods, Sparrow knew, probably not far from where they had gone skating. They were far enough from the house that it was no longer Enjolras property, but close enough that they wouldn't get lost and Simone could still call it her woods. Sparrow had only been out there a few times, and never since the snow had melted. She loved it. There had been a small wood not far from her home as a child. There, she had never been. Maybe once when she was little, with her father, but if she had, she couldn't remember it. The woods had been forbidden to her and, for that, the girl she had once been had always craved it desperately. There was, as she witnessed now, nothing dangerous about the woods. Perhaps as a child, it would have scared her, to see nothing but trees in every direction. But now, running and clutching Simone's hand, Sparrow felt more at peace than she could ever remember.

"You stayed," Simone said, breaking the silence and panting as she released Sparrow and clutched a stitch in her side.

Sparrow leaned against a tree to catch her breath. "Sorry?"

"This morning. After I left, you stayed."

"With Sebastien?" Simone nodded and Sparrow shrugged her shoulders. "I did, yes."

"Why?"

"To talk. As though we are friends with common interests."

Simone snorted. "Oh, you're smitten."

Sparrow shook her head and sighed. "He thought I was scared of him, Mona."

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"No!"

"Don't be a goose."

"I'm not scared of him, Simone. He is too dear to me to cause me fear."

Simone rolled her eyes and knelt down, collecting small flowers into her lap. "Well, that's just my point."

"How so?"

"You don't like being dear to be people or having them be dear to you. You think that love makes you weak and that caring will only hurt you. But you feel like Sebastien might love you and, deep down, you love him back. So you fear being with him because being with him reminds you that you love him." She said all this as though she were telling Sparrow about the weather, her voice so calm and matter-of-fact. She grinned only when spotting another flower, which she added to the growing pile on her lap. "When did you last wear a flower crown?"

"Tell me something awful."

Simone began tying the flowers together. "Awful? I don't think you've ever worn a flower-crown."

"About Sebastien."

Simone laughed. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I like that you love him and I won't give you what you need to stop. Anyway, there's nothing."

"Liar. Everyone has something wrong with them."

"Wrong doesn't mean unlovable, Sparrow. If you love my cousin, and I think you do, there's nothing I can possibly say to you to make you stop loving him. Any anything I could say ill of him, you already know."

"Such as?"

Simone rolled her eyes. "Such as that he periodically forgets women are people. He thinks his education makes him better than those less educated. He's vain and fights dirty. If he's mad at you about a little thing, he'll say the thing he knows will hurt you the most, whether or not it's true and whether or not it's relevant. He's a nasty, brutish little man-child. But you know all of that. Here." She set the flower garden on Sparrow's head. "You look like a fairy."

"Simone," Sparrow began softly, but Simone held a finger to her lip.

"Come on!" She grabbed Sparrow's hand and silently led her along.

They walked slowly this time, their bodies still aching from their run.  _I used to run so fast, and so far_ , Sparrow thought. Though that was a different type of running. If she was scared, she was sure she could run forever, corset or not corset. She closed her eyes and listened. They were close to the creek now, she could hear it.

"Don't be stupid, Sparrow," Simone said, "You'll walk into a tree."

Sparrow opened her eyes. "You're leading me."

"Still."

They walked until they were at the creek. Sparrow stooped the feel the water, but Simone grabbed her wrist.

"Look, while the water is still still."

Sparrow sighed, but obeyed. "And?"

"Look how lovely you look. With the flowers and everything, we really should have you sit for a portrait."

Sparrow rolled her eyes. "Couldn't you have just waited until we got home? A looking glass would be so much clearer."

"I wanted you to see yourself out here, where you're free."

Sparrow laughed. "Am I a prisoner now?"

"Everyone's a prisoner in four walls. We all deserve freedom sometimes." Simone set her chin on Sparrow's shoulder, a dash of red and peach thrown into her reflection. "Now, tell me what you see."

Sparrow sighed. "I see a child who has flowers in her hair and a nasty girl who's invading her personal space."

Simone wrapped her arms around Sparrow's waist and gave her a tight squeeze. "I'm only as nasty as you let me," she said. "Now, tell me what you really see."

"I see…" Sparrow trailed off. Looking at her reflection, staring back at her with blurred features, she saw hundreds upon hundreds of paintings, all done one on top of the next. There was the skinny, homeless girl, alone in the world without family or friends. There was the gentleman's ward, the cause of all the town's gossip and excitement. There was a cruel little child who would do anything for a reminder she was loved. The whore morphed with the princess and the waif morphed with the lady. Before her lay too many girls with too many names. So many lives she had left behind and so many more that she may never get the chance to live.

"I see," she continued at last, "a bird."

"Just a bird?" Simone asked softly.

Sparrow nodded. "Just a bird. A wingless little bird." She sighed and leaned back against her friend. "He wants to fix me, Simone."

"Men are silly like that sometimes. The old men tell them the stories about how the men of generations past of changed the world. How they moved forwards by fixing what was broken. So when men want something, they think it means it needs fixing."

Sparrow leaned her head back against Simone's. "You really want him to love me. Is that really so important to you?"

Simone turned Sparrow in her arms and placed a hand on her cheek. "If he didn't love you and you didn't love him, I would be content. But he does love you and you do love him and your foolishness hurts me." She rubbed her thumb along Sparrow's cheek. "Don't you start crying."

"I'd hurt him," Sparrow whispered. "I'd hurt him and then I'd hate myself again. I'm only…you and Sebastien…there are days, Simone, when I wake up and I think that maybe, just maybe I deserve this. I deserve to be happy and to have nice things and to have a full belly. And if I ever caused him any harm, any grief — if I ever hurt anyone, I think I wouldn't deserve that anymore. And I know it's selfish but—"

"But you deserve happiness."

Sparrow nodded. "I know that it can't last forever. I know that no one can be happy all the time. But I would like to have it while I can."

Simone smiled. "I understand." She looped her arm through Sparrow's again, ready to bring her back to Sebastien. "A final comment, though," she said, started to walk back through the woods. "For what it's worth, I don't think you would hurt him. I think you could be happy."

Sparrow didn't respond. She just continued to walk beside Simone. Yes, there were days when she looked at Sebastien and struggled to breathe — so terribly was she overcome with desire for him. But there were other days, days when he was just Sebastien. Just her closest friend. And that was what caused her so much fear. How could she give herself into loving him, how could she give herself to him knowing that one day she might wake up and he would be only Sebastien? And she would have to break him.

"I have a terrible habit," she said so softly that Simone had to lean in to hear her. "This horrible, awful, nasty habit of thinking I love someone, when really I only appreciate their kindness, their generosity."

"And?"

"And then I stop. Then I realize that I'm just a silly, little child."

Simone sighed. "You think what you will, Sparrow. I cannot force you to love him if you don't and I cannot know for certain whether or not you do. I can only tell you what I see."

"Do you hate me?" A gust of wind blew over them, nearly masking Sparrow's words, and she moved quickly to hold the garland on her head. "For not loving him the way you think he wants me to?"

Simone stopped and stepped in front of Sparrow, gazing upon her with the gravest look Sparrow had ever witnessed upon her face. "Sebastien is my cousin and I love him as if he were my brother. And you came to us, in the beginning, because he wanted you with him and because you wanted to be with him. But then I knew you and I loved you as if you were my sister. You could think he was the scum of the Earth and you could actively do all that was in your power to shatter his heart, soul, and mind. And I would think you the most vile creature in existence. But I still wouldn't hate you, I don't think. I would want to, I'm sure. But I think that, at the end of the day, if you needed me, you're still my Sparrow."

Sparrow laughed, even as she brushed a tear from her eye. "You talk like that, Mona, and I almost think that you love me unconditionally."

"I do. That's what a family is."

There was a crunch of branches and both girls jumped to see Sebastien walking towards them.

"There you are," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I had almost worried." He paused, scrutinizing them. His eyes widened in concern. "You're crying. Both of you."

He held out an arm and Simone ran to it. "You are very silly, you know," she muttered, wrapping her arms around him.

"And you're crying! You don't cry! Oh, Sparrow, come here!"

Hesitantly, Sparrow stepped forward. "We were on our way back."

He reached out his free hand and brushed her hair from her face, his hand lingering above her shoulder. "Will you tell me what happened?"

"I'm a goose, that's all." She forced a smile, but Simone laughed.

"Here," she said, and plucked the flower crown from Sparrow's head and moved it to Sebastien's. Both girls laughed.

For a moment, his eyes flashed in anger and Sparrow nearly took a step back. But then he smiled and took his hand from her shoulder. "Am I very handsome?" he asked.

"Oh, quite so!"

"Sparrow?"

Sparrow smiled. "A fairy of sorts!"

Sebastien grinned. "Do you hear that, Simone? The wood-nymph has deemed me her equal."

It was so easy, the way he could make hardships and sadness seem like they had never happened. How in a single moment, he could make both girls forget how scared they were of knowing that their friendship could never last. In that moment, they were all happy.

It was sunset before they returned back home. Marguerite ushered them into the dining room as soon as they walked in the door.

"Monsieur Mathieu had some errands to run in town," she explained to them. "I offered to send one of the girls or go do it myself, but he insisted he go and that you start supper without him."

Simone raised an eyebrow. "Did he say what he was doing?"

Marguerite shook her head. "Now eat, before your supper gets cold."

Simone shrugged and took her seat. Sparrow and Sebastien followed. They ate in silence that night, each lost in their own thoughts. Sparrow wordlessly picked at her chicken, a small smile on her face. Despite her tears and despite her moments of loneliness and fear, it had been a good day. She had been happy. That was how it had been for months and that was how it would be for however much longer she remained. There were days when she remembered how lucky she was with immense joy and days when her luck filled her with guilt. Family. Family had been the word Simone used to describe what they had together. There were days when Sparrow felt like a happy child again, days when Marguerite would force her to sit for nearly an hour while her hair was washed and combed and styled, days when Mathieu would sit in his chair and tell the girls (and Sebastien, though he always pretended to be preoccupied) the adventures of his own youth. There were days when she and Simone would bicker over who possessed which pair of gloves and which color looked best on which girl. Again, she remembered what it felt like to have doting parents and a loving sister. Only Sebastien reminded her that things were different now. His faced served as a reminder that this was not her family but his. She was just the lost girl who was lucky enough to be the recipient of the greatest kindness. And each time she looked at him she felt, if only for a fleeting moment, that she would one day become the lost girl who had destroyed him and destroyed this family that would never be hers, however much she wished they could be. When she felt Simone's eyes on her, she wondered if they shared the thought. Lifting her cup of wine, she wondering if Simone, too, allow herself to believe that Sparrow was her own blood for stretches of time, only to remember how deeply she desired that the younger girl marry her cousin and become her proper family. Immediately, the wine caught in her throat and Sparrow sputtered.

"Sparrow?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly, looking down at her plate.

_Marry_. Simone had never uttered the word. It had never been suggested, not even implied. Marry Sebastien? The notion was ridiculous. It could never happen. To force Sebastien to her, to tie him to her forever and always — she could never do that to him. It would be a worse fate than death. She could feel her cheeks burning as her heart began to race. What a peculiar idea! Marry Sebastien! She wanted to laugh out loud. She flinched when he reached across the table and took her hand.

"Are you well?"

She looked up and nearly laughed at the concern upon his face.

"You look as though you might burst," he said, his hand still covering her own.

Sparrow shook her head. "I'm — I'm so sorry," and she couldn't help but let out a laugh, bringing her free hand to cover her mouth.

"Why, Sebastien! I think she's gone mad." The lightness of Simone's tone, her ability to nearly mask her own desire to laugh, made Sparrow laugh harder.

"I'm so terribly sorry!" She squeezed Sebastien's hand. "I've only had the oddest little thought!" She brought her other hand from her mouth to her chest, tears leaking from her eyes. "It wasn't even so funny." She squeezed Sebastien's hand tight, looking into his eyes. He seemed torn between joining in her laughter or calling for a doctor.  _Hysteria_ , she could almost hear her father scoffing.  _Men just say that when women express emotion we can't understand_. She laughed again. "It was just the most peculiar little thought."

She was certain she would have started crying had the front door not slammed open with such a force that, even in the dining room, all three youths were startled into silence.

"Sebastien!"

Immediately, Sebastien dropped Sparrow's hand and pushed himself away from the table.

"Sebastien! My office!"

He left without a word.

"I've never heard him yell before."

"He doesn't. Not ever," Simone said. She shook her head. "Are you sure you're well?"

"Yes, just a bit mad."

Simone nodded. "Come." She stood and held out a hand to Sparrow.

"Where?"

"Aren't you curious?"

Sparrow nodded and took Simone's hand. Halfway down the hall, Simone kicked off her shoes and motioned for Sparrow to do the same. In their stockings, the two girls silently moved through the house, stopping outside Mathieu's office door. Simone pressed her ear to the door and Sparrow, sitting on the floor, did the same.

"I understand your desires," Mathieu was saying. "Truly, I do. And you've been lucky. I have a good staff, Sebastien, a loyal one."

"We'll go away then, uncle. Just for a while," Sebastien said quickly. Whatever they were discussing, Sebastien was nervous. Sparrow pressed herself closer to the door. "Geneva should be lovely this time of year. She's never been on holiday before."

"Sebastien —"

"Going away might do her some good, uncle. She's been cooped up for so long. And she's a city girl. Geneva's not Paris, but it's better than this."

"And I'm sure they will spend a day or even a weekend in Nancy."

"I'm sorry?"

"She is why they are coming, my boy. Do you think they would just come to visit? Nonsense!"

There was a brief silence. Sparrow looked up at Simone for clarification, but Simone shrugged, her eyes narrowed in thought.

"I can't leave, then."

"You can't stay."

"And abandon her? Even for a day — she'd never forgive me."

"Then I'll make up the attic, put a room together for you in the south wing. You're already a recluse!"

"Very well!"

Mathieu let out a cold laugh. "A joke, Sebastien."

"The only option."

"Sebastien." Sparrow was startled at how grave Mathieu's voice sounded. "You know my thoughts on your status."

"I'm a fugitive."

"Bullshit!" Simone had to cover her mouth to stop her laughter. "If the police or anyone else wanted you, they'd look here. And we've had nothing. You've been forgotten."

"Thank you." Sebastien's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"I mean that in the best way possible, my boy. Right now, you could live your life and no one would blink an eye at Monsieur Sebastien Enjolras."

"But?"

"But if Jaime were to find you…"

There was another brief silence and Simone sunk down to sit beside Sparrow, her face drained of all color.

"You'd lose Simone."

"If it got back to Bruce or worse…"

"Mary."

"She's been fighting ever since Elizabeth died."

"But if Jaime said you were harboring some violent fugitive, a dangerous radical…" Sebastien trailed off momentarily. "Jesus Christ, she's eighteen years old. They can't take her against her will."

"She's a good Scottish girl brainwashed by her mad French father."

Simone shook her head and stood, opening the door so suddenly that Sparrow nearly toppled over. She walked to her father's desk, head held high.

"I'd run away."

"Simone."

Sparrow stood, but remained silent in the doorway.

"They can't come here," Simone said, panic rising in her voice. "I won't see them."

"Simone." Mathieu's voice was both soft and stern as he grabbed his daughter's hand. "Simone. They've got their friends in town —"

"Then they can visit them!"

"They have their friends in town and want to meet Sparrow. How am I to deny them a bed and the opportunity to meet her?"

"They'll break her, Papa."

Sparrow opened her mouth to speak, to ask for some sort of explanation, some clarification, but before she could get a word out, Sebastien had arrived at her side and put an arm around her.

"I will leave you to your daughter, uncle. We will talk about this further in the morning. Goodnight."

Before Sparrow could say her own goodnights, Sebastien had led her from the room.

"Tell me what's going on," Sparrow demanded as he led her through the house and up the stairs. "Have I done something wrong? Sebastien, please!"

Sebastien stopped and moved in front of her. He took both her hands in his own and, to her surprise, raised them to his lips and kissed them softly.

"You have done nothing wrong, little bird," he said softy. "Absolutely nothing at all and don't think even for a moment that you have. But I need you to come with me."

Trembling, Sparrow nodded and followed. He led her past his room and hers and into the unfrequented south wing of the house.

"Has Simone taken you into the attic?"

Sparrow shook her head. "I didn't know there was one."

Sebastien led her into a small room at the end of the hallway. There were no windows and no lamps.

"Can you see the steps?"

Sparrow nodded briefly before realizing that, of course, Sebastien could barely see her. "Faintly," she said."

Sebastien took her hand. "Hold up your skirt."

"I know how to walk up stairs, Sebastien."

He didn't respond, silently leading her up the stairs. "Stay here," he said when he reached the top, and dropped her hand. A moment later, a dim light filled the room as Sebastien opened the curtain for the setting sun.

The room was large and unfurnished, but completely cluttered. Boxes were piled upon boxes, old furniture was shoved into the corners.

"You want to come live up here?" Sparrow asked incredulously.

"Come here, little bird," Sebastien said softly, waving her into the slowly disappearing light. "My aunt Elizabeth, she was Scottish, you know."

"Yes, you've told me."

"Her mother still lives there, Simone's grandmother. Near Edinburgh. With her son and his children: Jaime — he's nearing twenty-four, I believe — and two girls, Charlotte and Agatha. Agatha is a year older than Simone, I believe, and Charlotte is your age. The girls, they're fine. They're…girls — no, don't say anything. They're just typical people."

"Typical rich people."

"Yes. But Jaime…Jaime…You'd think we'd all bond over the English."

"I thought they were Scottish?"

Sebastien let out a little laugh and Sparrow knew he was trying to have a light humor for her sake. Half of her was grateful. The other half wished he wouldn't. "Don't you know your history? The Scottish are perhaps the only people who hate the English as much as we do."

Sparrow forced a little laugh to please him. "But you don't?"

"No. Jaime's a fine boy, he's exactly what his father wants him to be which is damn near acceptable to the English. He's proper to a fault, hates anything out of the ordinary. He expects ladies to be ladies. Pretty to look at and only opening their mouths to sing pretty little songs."

"He must hate Simone."

Sebastien nodded. "He..."

"He's not dissimilar from you." Sparrow immediately grabbed Sebastien's arm, growing cold at the hurt look on his face. "Not today, Sebastien," she said quickly, burying herself in his chest. She couldn't bear to look at him. "Not today. Just…you used to hate me."

She felt Sebastien nod against her. "I was very stupid, little bird. Very, very stupid. But out of the ordinary — out of the ordinary didn't bother me. I never hated Simone."

"Because she 'thinks like a man?'"

"Was I wrong to consider her mind that of a man? Yes. But it didn't bother me that she had a strong mind. What was wrong is that I thought other woman didn't — that they couldn't. But Jaime thinks they shouldn't. And if he finds me here, he will make a fuss. He will call for the police. He will make it all so public that no one will have a choice but to hang me." Sparrow clutched him tightly, but Sebastien laughed. "I'm only joking, little bird. Only joking."

"Are you?"

Sebastien hushed her and held her close. "It's May, little bird. May already, can you believe that? How much we've changed! Think of where we were a year ago. When you imagined when you would be by the summer of eighteen thirty-three, did you imagine anything close to this?"

Sparrow shook her head against his chest. "I didn't imagine anything."

"I'm so different now, Sparrow. We both are." He pulled away with a little laugh and cupped her face in his hands. "He'll hate you," he said softly.

Sparrow forced a smile. "I've been hated before. It doesn't scare me."

Sebastien smiled back, his eyes squinted against the setting sun. "You'll give him Hell for me, won't you?"

"I'll do my best."

There was a snort from the top of the stairs and they turned to see Simone staring at them, her arms crossed over her chest.

"That won't be hard," she said coolly, and Sparrow wondered if she should be insulted. With a sigh, Simone dropped her arms and walked to the pair. Sebastien released Sparrow, who turned to Simone, unsure of what to say.

"Jaime and the girls," Simone began softly, "they're as society as one can be. I'm bad at all of the social niceties, but I know them. You…" She averted her eyes. All three knew her meaning. But Sparrow shook her head. Another might be offended, but she knew Simone's meaning and knew the other girl bore her no ill will.

"I've never had to know them before," Sparrow said as warmly as she could, reaching for Simone's hand. "You know enough about me to know I've never…I've never had to be a proper lady before and that it was better for me if I didn't. I know, it's alright for you to say so, I won't be offended. But I'm learning, Simone." Nodding quickly, she turned to Sebastien. "I'm learning," she repeated.

Sebastien smiled at her. "And you pass wonderfully," he said. "But that's when you're out in town, when there's not much to do except to greet people and curtsy at the right moment."

"Well, what more is there?" She tried to stay calm as Simone and Sebastien exchanged a look over her head. "Just tell me what I need to know."

"It's this!" Simone exclaimed, and Sparrow nearly jumped at the force behind her words. "It's the way you act around people, around 'Bastien. You…Sebastien is my cousin and, still, I'd never more than take his arm in public. I would never hold him or take his hand. And you…why, if Sebastien ever went in public with you, I'd give it ten minutes before you two became the biggest scandal this town's ever seen. You're not his sister, not even his cousin. He's not courting you or anything of the like. That's why Antoine LaRoux is so forward with any girl he wants to shame. Because even if you deny his kiss and still take his arm without at least feigning hesitation, you've half ruined your reputation anyway. The way you act with Sebastien, why, even if you were  _married_  it would still be quite scandalous. And here, here we don't care. I've never been one for all those stuffy rules and nor has Papa and it is fine here and we don't think anything of it. But I hear them talk and, Sebastien, do you know what they're saying? Downstairs, do you know what the girls say? They still think she's your mistress. They're sure of it. Because why else would Monsieur Sebastien arrive home at night with a girl no one's met before? A girl they've all seen fallen asleep in your lap in the middle of the day. But the way they are, Jaime and Agatha and Charlotte, you can't touch anyone. Barely even me."

Sparrow shook her head and put a hand on Simone's cheek. "I'll be fine, though," she said. "Sebastien won't even be here."

"It's not just Sebastien," Simone said. "It's anyone. If we go into town and Xavier Girard joins us on a walk and offers you his arm—"

"Then I'll refuse!" Sparrow shook her head. "It's so silly, you know. I spent my whole life surrounded by men. When they wanted to lead me somewhere, they took my hand or my arm and I never knew that was wrong. But I understand it, I do. Your cousin wants to come here and find a proper lady. I can be her, Simone. I can."

Simone nodded. "I know, I just…even I hate it, Sparrow. I hate it so terribly much. But I won't go to Scotland."

"Then I won't give them reason to take you."

Simone took Sparrow's hand and kissed it softly. "You are the most wonderful, girl," she said smiling. "We can survive Jaime. God knows you've survived much worse."

"Much, much worse."

Sebastien put a hand on her back. "They'll arrive in two weeks' time," he said. "They travel to the continent every summer, though the last three they've missed the north of France. But Jaime has connections everywhere. He must have heard of you and gotten curious."

"We don't get on well," Simone interrupted. "Never have. I hate Jaime, Agatha is the most pompous little vixen I've ever met, and Charlotte has no spine. For all I know, she's the most pleasant little thing, but I don't think I've heard her speak since her mother put her in a long skirt. She'll open her mouth, but the second Jaime looks at her, she stops. Jaime has some lovely ideas about women."

Sparrow nodded. "Sebastien told me."

"It was a wonder they didn't get along splendidly."

"Simone!"

Simone rolled her eyes. "You've always hated women, Sebastien. Just because you're getting better doesn't mean you don't have your faults."

Sebastien bowed his head. "For what it's worth, I believe you both to be outstanding little women."

"And we appreciate it," Simone said with a laugh. "Now, come back down. I need help to placate Papa. And we'll need to tidy it up up here for you."

"Won't he be hot?" Sparrow said, following Simone downstairs. "I'm sure it's absolute Hell once summer kicks in."

"Ah!" Simone exclaimed, stopping so suddenly on the steps that Sparrow nearly ran into her. "You mustn't swear. Not even 'Hell' or 'damn.'"

"Blast."

"Not even. No swearing, no slang."

"Pretend to be a convent girl," Sebastien suggested.

"I've never even been to church!"

Simone snorted. "Didn't you two spend nearly half a year in a church?"

"But I've never been to mass. I don't even know if I was baptized!"

"The child will need a name."

The three youths turned to see Marguerite emerging from Simone's room. "Your father sent me searching for you, pet. Come here," she beckoned Sparrow, who was quick to obey. She turned up the girl's chin, pushing her hair back behind her shoulders. "If you say you're called Sparrow, they'll call you that. The girls might not even question it out loud. But Mister Jaime will ask for your Christian name. He won't believe you're really called Sparrow."

"Oh! That's another thing," Simone hissed in her ear. "Jaime resents that Papa is French. He'll make you call him Mister Jaime instead of Monsieur and the girls Miss."

But Marguerite clucked her tongue and waved for Simone to quiet herself. "Fill her in on the details later. Start finding her something she'll respond to. What is it you call her when she's being so dreary. Maria?"

"Mariana," both girls said in unison, and Sparrow could tell from Marguerite's expression that she had not needed their confirmation. It was so easy to forget the Marguerite was so ever present, that nothing happened, or was even mentioned, without her knowledge.

"Mariana," Marguerite repeated. "Well, they may struggle to believe she's French, but I'm sure you'll create a story. Now, Simone, go back down there and apologize to your father. And you, Sebastien. It was rude to leave so abruptly."

Immediately, both obeyed. If there was one thing that Sparrow had witnessed as being a constant law in the Enjolras house, it was that when Marguerite commanded something, everyone, even Monsieur Mathieu, obeyed. Sparrow turned to follow, but Marguerite took her arm.

"No, you're with me." She ran a hand over Sparrow's head and scoffed. "You're a mess," she scolded. "What on Earth were you three doing today?"

"I rode a horse," Sparrow said proudly as Marguerite guided her into her room. "I've never done so before."

"Was it everything you had wished?"

Sparrow leaned against the bedpost as Marguerite began undoing her buttons. "I think I rather hated it, actually."

"I dislike horses myself. Never liked them at all. I think you've got to be like Simone and grow up with them."

Sparrow nodded and stepped out of her skirt. "I can dress myself for bed on my own."

Marguerite laughed. "I know you can. But I'm here tonight, so you're going to put on that nightgown and sit down while I figure out what in God's name you did to your hair — Oh, don't you give me that face! Is that the look you'd give your maman?"

As soon as she had spoken, Marguerite's eyes widened in shock. In the four months Sparrow had been there, never once had Marguerite even discreetly tried to find out more about Sparrow's past. She never mentioned Sparrow's mother or father. Even as a joke, Marguerite never said anything about it. To an outsider, it would have appeared that Sparrow was the woman's own daughter. There was never even the slightest reminder from Marguerite that there had ever been a time when Sparrow was someone else. For Sparrow, that was never a sign of a lack of caring, a lack of interest. Marguerite's silence regarding Sparrow's past allowed the girl a feeling of respect that she had never before felt as though she had earned. For that, Sparrow trusted her.

She shrugged her shoulders and said, "Worse, probably. She was a nasty thing."

"Sparrow." Marguerite stood still, as if a single movement would shatter the relationship she had been silently building with the girl who had invaded her makeshift family.

"I don't mind it, Marguerite. I think this much they all know anyway. She's dead — my maman. She died last summer. I had a friend who told me. He's the only one who knew I didn't die. It's nice for me, though. Because my mother was so awful. My papa was mean. He was mean and harsh and I think he might have killed me if I crossed him. And I thought that was normal. But I don't think Monsieur Mathieu has ever even raised a hand to Simone. So one of these must be abnormal and I'm starting to believe there's enough good in this world that my papa was the odd one. So he was a mean, old man and I tried very hard - try, I'm still trying - to stop loving him. Because I loved him very much when I was little. He was my papa and I was the oldest and so he loved me. And Maman did, too. She loved my sister and I. I think Simone thinks I had one brother and that he died. But I have three. Had...I don't know. I think Sebastien knows there were three. One died on the barricades. I don't think Sebastien knows who he was though, because I think Sebastien assumed he was older, and that's a lovely assumption. I wish he had been."

She shook her head and wiped a tear from her cheek. Wordlessly, Marguerite led her to the dressing table and began, very slowly, to brush her hair. Sparrow continued. "My maman never loved the boys and neither did my papa. I think by the time they were born, he didn't love any of us. But for a while, maybe, I think my maman did. But then she stopped caring about everyone. It was like she laid in bed for so long, that the mattress consumed her. She was just part of the furniture. She didn't care for anyone or anything. Once, oh, this was only perhaps a year ago, not much more than that: Once, my papa wanted to break the window, and he made my sister punch her hand through it and my maman just didn't care. I think she hated papa, but she didn't have the energy to care. So it's nice that's she dead because I like to think that, deep down, she still loved us. I like to think she died before anyone told her I was killed. I like to think that she would have been sad to hear I died and I don't think mothers should ever have to bury their children, however nasty of a mother they are." Marguerite paused in brushing her hair as Sparrow began to shake.

"She probably still has the scars — my sister. Because Papa made her punch her hand through a glass window and Maman didn't care to stop her. I don't think she had ever seen so much blood and she was so afraid. Afterward, Maman cared and scolded Papa for hurting her, but she didn't stop her beforehand. Papa joked they had to have her arm cut off and she was so scared. So, so scared. She probably still has the scars. If she's still alive. I don't even know if she's alive. And I don't know if the dead have scars." She shook her head and turned to face Marguerite. "I'm the oldest, I'm supposed to take care of the rest, but one is dead and the other three, for all I know, have joined him. My sister was such a sweet little thing. She was so scared of the whole world. She was only a year younger than I was, but you might have thought she was ten years younger than me for the way she talked. She was an innocent little child and I don't know if she's even alive."

Her voice broke and Marguerite set the brush back on the table, pulling Sparrow close to her and rubbing her head. She felt a hundred pounds lighter. It wasn't much, the information she had shared, but it was enough to remind her that she was not alone. For a long time, she sat there, sobbing into Marguerite's bosom.

"Do you think I'm wicked for abandoning them?" Sparrow asked at last.

"On the contrary," Marguerite said. "I think you are very brave." She rubbed Sparrow's back briefly and stood back. Again, she lifted the brush and began braiding Sparrow's hair. "Whatever you tell me, my dear, I will keep. I will not tell Monsieur or Simone or Sebastien. Whatever you tell me, whatever you must share to make yourself live, I will not tell."

Sparrow nodded. It was strange, the way she felt as though there was nothing she could not say to Marguerite. Although she trusted Sebastien completely to never reveal a thing she told him, she feared what he would think of her secrets. But Marguerite…Marguerite was a silent, but constant presence and for reasons she could not articulate, Sparrow trusted Marguerite to be an ear and nothing more. She trusted her to listen silently and to never pass judgement. She knew Marguerite would always be there, wherever Sparrow was, and that she would listen. For Sparrow, talking to Marguerite was akin to talking to god. Only Marguerite, however, she could believe in.

"I can't say my name," Sparrow whispered, talking very fast. "I gave it up and I can't have it back and if I say it I'll become her again. And she didn't deserve this. Her maman didn't brush her hair. Her maman didn't keep her secrets. And the only people who loved her were the people who didn't know any better. So I can't tell you her name, but…" She stared at herself in the mirror. The girl with a name seemed so far off. The girl with a name had never had a soft face or brushed hair. The girl with a name had stolen into her neighbor's room just to catch a glimpse of herself in his mirror. She had never had her own bed. Marguerite squeezed her shoulder.

Sparrow took a deep breath. "She was born in November of eighteen fifteen. But she shouldn't have come until late December, maybe even January. No one expected her to live. Her sister followed her in February of eighteen seventeen, but it was years before the boys started coming. She was happy and had dolls. She loved dolls. She had a cat too. I don't remember it's name. And her second name was Emmanuelle. The girl, not the cat. The girl's second name was Emmanuelle after her aunt, her father's sister. She died when the girl was nine. And she was the only one who ever loved her properly. She was the only one who ever loved me."

Finishing Sparrow's braid, Marguerite put the hairbrush back on the table and kissed the top of Sparrow's head. "I know it's early, but you should sleep. You've look so tired lately. Secrets are very exhausting, sweetheart." She took Sparrow's hand and led her to her bed, pulling back the blankets. "Lie down, lie down," she said softly. "I'll see to the lights."

From the comfort of her bed, Sparrow watched Marguerite circle the room, turning off the lights one by one. She watched as she opened the window, complaining of the early summer heat as the wind sent the curtains dancing into the room. And, when Marguerite told her to sleep soundly as she shut the door behind herself, Sparrow felt, for the first time, what Simone had been so desperately telling her for weeks.

She was loved.


	15. Playing Make Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. I want to thank you guys so much for being so patient with this chapter. My Papa, my mother's father, was very sick and passed away about a week and a half ago, so I just haven't had the energy I normally have to write. We were very close. He helped me fall in love with music and literature and history and really made me who I am today. I dedicate this chapter to him. May his memory be a blessing.
> 
> Thank you, Mel, for being such an amazing, patient beta and also for helping me name the chapter (per usual :D )

Sparrow woke up naturally that morning and the world was silent. No footsteps of the staff downstairs preparing for the day, no sign of Simone ready to drag Sparrow from her bed. Only silence. She turned over and buried her face in her pillow.

A week had passed since Monsieur Mathieu had received the letter informing the of his nephew's arrival. A week had passed and now only a week remained. Jaime and his sisters had been traveling the continent since the end of April, the letter explained, and wanted to stop in to see their "most beloved cousin" on their way back home. And so, for the last week, Sparrow had been molded into every bit a society lady. She stepped with smaller strides, her back straighter than she could have ever imagined. Twice she had fainted, unaccustomed to the new tightness with which Simone and Marguerite laced her corset. Over and over again, for an hour each morning, she would sit with Sebastien in the library, first copying passages he marked from books, then writing down his own words as he spoke them, and now writing her own thoughts. Some days, her fingers ached. She wrote more words now each morning that she had ever written before in her entire life. "Is this really necessary?" she would ask, and he would only smile and squeeze her shoulder. So far, she had written for him her favorite time of day and why. Over two days, she sat at the writing desk, whining, but produced for him a short essay on why she loved those few hours between supper and bedtime in a large, rough script. Sebastien had been so quiet as he read it and, afterwards, stared at her until her face flushed. But "Don't write so violently," was all he said. "Just let the words come out on their own." She had snatched the paper from his hands and all but marched off.

"She's trying, Sebastien, don't you see?" she had heard Simone scolding him that evening. "The least you can do is acknowledge that."

"And she's doing wonderfully. But it's not enough. If Jaime thinks, if he even suspects that she's anything less than…less than…"

"You mean she can't play the rich girl." Simone's voice was cold and Sparrow had stepped closer to the library door to listen.

"She is a bright and charming girl," Sebastien had hissed. He paused for a moment and Sparrow had worried she might be caught eavesdropping, but soon he continued. "Had she been educated at all as a child, she could put us all to shame and I have no doubt of that. And, yes, she says she was educated by her father but you know as well as I do that's meaningless. Her father's still alive, Simone. He's alive and thinks his daughter's dead and has done nothing to find her. You've seen the papers from Paris. A family has lost their sixteen-year-old daughter — missing for nearly a year — here's nothing. She's told us outright that he was no good. So he taught her her letters and numbers — so what? She was never properly taught to read or write, she was never taught any of this!"

Sparrow jumped when she heard his hand slam down on something, perhaps the table. She nearly walked in, right then and there. How dare he insult her like that. Uneducated. Why, she knew far more than he could ever imagine! But before she could march in there, head held high, Sebastien continued, his voice far softer than it had been before.

"She was never taught to sit up straight, to ride a horse. She has no idea of when it is acceptable to accept a man's arm and when it's not. She was never taught to respect anyone's boundaries except her own. And she was never taught that, by virtue of their sex, a woman can't insult a man. Don't give me that look, Simone! There's a difference between having a complete disregard for the niceties of society and not knowing them at all. You can turn on manners when you chose. When you tire one day — and I promise you, you will — of being mocked and berated for your improper conduct, you'll change. You'll be able to act the way you want to act. You can chose whether people hate you or love you. She doesn't have that option. She's not going to be the society girl Jaime and the girls expect to see. Maybe she could be, if she had more time. Maybe she can still learn all the rules. But I don't know. And, quite frankly, I can't definitively say that I think she should. From what I gather, that girl was taught two things: to always speak her mind and to survive. And she's done a damn good job with the both of those. I'm not going to stop helping her. I still think she needs to write. Not to impress you or me or Jaime or anyone else, though. But there's so much in her head, so much that she's scared to say. She needs a way of letting it out. But it's stupid to try so hard to make her into a lady, Simone. She's Sparrow, she's…whoever it is that she wants to be. She's clever and bold and perceptive. And if she laughs too loudly or can only ride astride, and hates it still, or if she continues to seek physical comfort when she's hurt, whether it be yours or mine, she's still a better and more clever person than Jaime could ever dream of getting."

She had waited breathless against the door, listening to silence and praying he would continue, but it was Simone who spoke next.

"You're idealizing her, Sebastien. You're making her perfect in her imperfection, but you'll only hurt yourself."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I'm worried, 'Bastien. It means that my whole life, you've praised me for being different from the other girls you knew. And you've done the same to her."

> _You ought to have been born a man._
> 
> _Indeed, you are a woman, but with your mind, you_ _'_ _re a lucky rarity within your sex._

"You're being silly, Simone! I may have said some foolish things in my life, but I learn, the same as the rest of you. I know you're a girl, just as I know she is."

"But we don't act it!" Sparrow was shocked at the fury in Simone's voice. "Sparrow's far more wild than you were taught any woman has the right to be. And I! I have no desire to ever bear a child, I bit the last man who tried to kiss me so hard that he bled! I love a woman the way I'm supposed to love a man." Simone paused, her voice breaking. "You, Sebastien, you've read all the great thinkers of our society and those that came before us. You know as well as I do that they describe my sex in their own idealistic fashion. And I know that no woman, not one is truly like that. And you say you know that as well as I do, but I have to wonder if that's true. You, too, have such a strict idea of what a woman should be and you hate it. It's why you swore never to marry, never to have even a mistress. Because you hate what you've believed your whole life to be lady like. Say what you will, but you've been bred to hate my sex and you do. But you separate Sparrow from the class of woman. You fancy her so much because she defies what you think a lady should be in every way. She's been molded, like everyone else, into what she is today. But maybe in another world, she would want to curl her hair high each morning and shelter her face from the sun. Maybe in another life she'd love being perched on the back of a horse in the mornings and playing charades in the evenings. So, yes, maybe she hates us trying to make her a lady and maybe we're wrong to try to hide her wildness. And there is nothing wrong with you loving her despite or because of all those things that the world would deem her faults. But I worry that you love her not because she's bold and wild, but because she's bold and wild and you believe no other lady is. What happens one day when she does something perfectly lady-like? Will you then hate her for being just like every other girl you've hated over the years?"

For a long while, there had only been silence. Sparrow worried that her heart and breath could be heard through the door.

"Do you think so little of me?" Sebastien had asked at last.

"Is there anything so wrong with giving her the option to be a lady? The same options I had?"

She could hear Sebastien pacing around the room. She could almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose as he spoke. "There is nothing wrong with teaching her to ride a horse. Even teaching her sidesaddle. But if you look closely, you can see that her lip has swollen because she bites it so hard every time she goes faster than a walk. And when you curl her hair and style it in the latest fashions, she smiles into the mirror because she thinks that looking like a portrait in a ladies' magazine makes her beautiful, but she stands with her back against the wall and constantly touches the back of her neck because she feels so naked and exposed without her hair to cover it." He stopped pacing. "You're frightened that Jaime will see her as less than a lady. He'll see her lack of sophistication, report back to your grandmother, and take you to Scotland. But that's not what will happen. He'll see her as less than a lady and try to have her sent away. It'll be an easier case for him to make — that your father's gone mad and allowed this stranger in his house and he'll be praying that we all love her little enough that we'd compromise.

"There's nothing you can do to hide her from him. You can teach her all the pretty words she's supposed to say and how to sit still and be silent, but inevitably he will anger her and she won't stand by like some doll and let his words wash away. Our only hope is to let her be herself. Perhaps he'll make a cause of her. Give him the few weeks they're here to try and make her a lady. And then they'll go back to Scotland and things will be as they have been. I can't watch her trying so hard for our sake when she's lonely and miserable inside, and know that it's all for naught."

She knew, lying in bed the next morning, just as she had known in that moment, that she should have left then. It wouldn't do to dwell on their warring thoughts of her. But for reasons that escaped her as she lay alone in the silence of the next morning, she had stayed.

"Does it never not consume you?" Simone asked, not unkindly. "The way you love her?"

Sebastien was silent, but Sparrow could hear that he had started to pace again.

"They should write songs about you," Simone continued with a laugh when it because clear that Sebastien would not respond. "The passionate love Sebastien Enjolras bore for the girl who made him swear not love her."

Silently Sparrow waited. It would take only a few words. And, oh! how much easier her life would be if she could rest assured that he did not love her. But instead, he said:

"Please, Simone. Don't mock me. Not tonight."

And it was only then that Sparrow retreated to her room. Since Simone had first suggested that Sebastien had fallen in love with her, Sparrow spent too much of her time wondering if it could possibly true. He was a good man, a noble one. And she was unloveable. So many nights she had spent lying awake in bed, wishing she could just know if it was possible for her to be loved.

But as she lay there that morning, she decided it was more pleasant not knowing. Knowing meant there was hope that someone could love a nameless girl. And this hope only made her want him more. She pulled her blankets up over her head.  _Don't be stupid,_  she told herself. Wanting was dangerous. But the past week, she had loved him more days than not. In fact, she had loved him each day since they first received Jaime's letter. All week, she had kept her hands folded in her lap, clutching her skirt as if that would stop her from reaching for him. She told herself every morning that Simone was wrong, that Sebastien didn't love her. That if she reached for him and tried to make him love her, he would only hate her for it. But Simone wasn't wrong at all. Damn.

With a heavy sigh, Sparrow pushed herself from her bed. She would dress, as she did each morning, and go downstairs to break her fast, as she did each morning. She would go into the library and wait for Sebastien to tell her what to write and she would treat him as she always did. After all, she was just a silly girl.

"He only loves you because he doesn't know any better," she said to her mirror. "And you only love him because you like being fancied." She smiled to make herself more agreeable. Maybe it would make her believe herself. It only made her look pathetic, and she left without a second glance.

Mathieu was already in the breakfast room when she got down.

"You're up early," he said, looking up from his coffee. "Did the heat wake you?"

Sparrow smiled as she took her seat. "It's only May. I refuse to complain of the heat so early in the season."

"If only Simone could be so clever."

Sparrow took a piece of bread. "Monsieur Mathieu?"

Mathieu sighed. "So formal. You make me feel like an old man."

"Mathieu makes me feel disrespectful," Sparrow said with a shrug.

"Then call me father as Simone does, or uncle like Sebastien. But 'Monsieur Mathieu…' You know I'm not your guard."

"Very well then, uncle," she said, trying the word. It was equal parts familiar and foreign. She smiled. "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"I know I won't fool them, Monsieur Jaime and his sisters. I can say all the right words, maybe. And I can pretend not to be frightened on a horse and I can pretend that I don't wish I were up in the attic with Sebastien and far away from any strangers. But I can't pretend I have an education when I don't. And I can't pretend that sitting up straight and knowing which fork to use comes naturally to me. I won't fool them."

Mathieu stared at her for a long while before responding. Sparrow bowed her head, desiring more to focus on the table then on Mathieu. But when he continued not to respond, she looked up, face flushed.

"Mon - uncle?"

"You said you had a question, my dear. Yet I never heard one."

"What should I do? I don't want to bring any harm or stress or anything else bad to you and your family."

Mathieu gave her a sad smile as he stood and walked around the table. "Rise and look at me, girl."

Sparrow obeyed. Gently, Mathieu lifted her chin to face him fully.

"You can continue being a bold and clever little thing. You can be as charming as you see fit and perhaps they will love you for it. And perhaps they won't. But, frankly, I don't give a damn what they think of you. Their father, Elizabeth's half-brother, he bears no strong love for me or my daughter. He disliked Elizabeth for having a French mother and likes Simone even less. They see Simone as one thing and that's as a wife. When Elizabeth died, they wanted to adopt Simone, raise her and, I'm sure, marry her off for some connection or another. So they are not the family I will fight for, my girl. Do you understand me?"

Sparrow nodded, unsure of what to say.

"Good." Mathieu kissed her brow and, without another word, returned to his seat.

In silence, the two finished their breakfast and Sparrow moved into the library. She sat down at the writing desk and stared at the pen before her.

"I despise this," she said when she heard someone enter behind her.

Sebastien walked up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You'll thank me one day."

"I'll thank you now if you'll let me go."

Sebastien laughed, walking around to stand beside her. "What do you want to write today, little bird?" he asked squatting to look her in the eye.

"You tell me."

He smiled. "Tell me what worries you."

"I'm not worried."

"This," Sebastien said, touching her forehead. "You get this little line here when you worry. Same as everyone else. So that's what you can write today."

"I could just tell you."

"Write."

So she wrote. Not everything, only that she was worried that she would upset Jaime and hurt Simone. Just enough worry.  _I worry_ , she wrote,  _that they will make you all realize that I don't belong_. In the end, it wasn't a long piece. But when she gave it to Sebastien, he read it slowly, giving it as much attention as he would give a book of philosophy.

When he finished, he knelt before her and cupped her face in his hands.

"Do you truly think that one day we will wake up and decide you are no longer wanted here?"

Sparrow shut her eyes and tilted her head to the side, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his hands. "There is a different between thinking and fearing."

Sebastien ran his thumb over her cheek. "Fearing means you think it possible."

"Anything is possible."

He laughed. "Never before have I heard such an optimistic phrase used so negatively. It's a silly fear, little bird."

Sparrow opened her eyes. "Please don't."

Sebastien withdrew his hands from her face. "Don't what?"

"Don't tell me it's silly. I already know. You tell me everyday. But just because you think it's silly doesn't mean that it's not how I feel. Don't make me seem stupid."

"You're not stupid, Sparrow. Not at all. But you worry too much. I'm allowed to tell you so, aren't I?"

Sparrow leaned forward. "What if they make me leave?"

"Jaime?"

Sparrow nodded.

"Well they won't. They have no control."

"But what if? Please, Sebastien, just humor me."

Sebastien reached forward and pulled Sparrow towards the edge of her seat, his hands on her elbows. "If they made you leave, we'd pack up and take off again in the dead of night. We would go wherever you wished, we could see all the great capitals of Europe: London and Madrid and Rome and Prague. We could drink fine wine as we watch the sun rise and fall over Lisbon and I would certainly lose you in the streets of Venice. If they make you leave, we'll go on an adventure grand enough to drive even the king mad with jealousy."

Sparrow wrapped her arms tightly around him, leaning off the chair to bury her face in his neck. She breathed slowly, feeling the way he rubbed her back.

_I could kiss him_ , she found herself thinking. They were alone — no one bothered them when she was writing. No one would opened the door. He loved her and she could kiss him and he could kiss her back. She wanted him and that was cruel. If she could have stayed there, wrapped in his arms, forever, she would have. But instead she pulled back, straightening herself in the chair, and ask, "Have you ever been in love?"

Sebastien gave her a sad little smile, but didn't question her abruptness. "I think so, perhaps."

"A little bit or a grand amount?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Sparrow looked away. She couldn't bear the way he looked at her. She feared that if she looked to long at his eyes or any other part of him, she would break. "I was in love, you know. But only a little bit. And now I'm not. So when you were in love, was it a little bit or a lot?"

"How do you know the difference?"

Sparrow sat quietly for a moment, focusing on the window. It was sunny out. She could make him take her outside. She'd braid flowers into her hair and he'd tell her, as he always did, that she looked like a fairy. She would ask if that made her beautiful and he could tell her that it did. And then, perhaps, she would become brave. And if she were brave, perhaps, she could kiss him.

"I think," she said, still not looking at him, "that when you love someone a lot, you can't stop. And I think it feels like a lot no matter what. But sometimes it's not. So I guess you can't know until you're alone or until they love you back if it was a little or a lot."

"Then I suppose, for now, I am very much in love."

_Am_. "Are you loved back?"

"I don't know, little bird. Maybe not. But that…I can live not being loved back."

"Even so deeply in love?"

Sebastien took her hand. Damn him. "If I only loved her a little, I think I would be angry with her for not loving me back. But I think I'd rather she have her happy but not loving me than unhappy and loving me only to make me happy."

"Is your happiness so unimportant to you?"

"Her happiness makes me happy."

"I'd like to meet her," she said before she could stop herself. "This girl you love so deeply."

"Oh?"

"One day I'll die."

Sebastien let out a sound between a cough and a laugh. "Not any time soon, I hope."

"No. But when I die, it will be on me to tell all of your friends that their feelingless leader could indeed love, and he was silly with it. And I want to be able to tell them about the girl who broke you."

He laughed. "Am I broken now?"

She looked back at him. His sentimentality had been contagious and, miraculously, she had defeated it. "Quite so."

"They will like you, little bird. Even when you're old and grey and wrinkled."

"You, though, I don't think they'll recognize."

"No?"

"I think you'll age quite horribly."

He grinned and straightened to her eye level. "You are cruel to me, little bird." He leaned in to kiss her cheek.

Quickly, Sparrow pushed back in her chair and stood. "I've got to be in town," she said, her cheeks flaming. "To pick up the dresses Simone and I had ordered last week. I told her I'd go today." She left the room without another word.

Sebastien rose and followed her out of the library. She went straight to the door, exchanging her slippers for boots and donning her hat.

"Simone! Are you coming?"

Sebastien turned and, calmly has he could, went upstairs. He nearly collided with Simone outside her room.

"Watch it, 'Bastien."

He grabbed her wrist. "What did you say to her?"

Simone's eyes widened in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You said something to Sparrow."

Simone snatched back her arm. "I say a great many things to Sparrow. You'll have to be more specific."

"Have you been filling her had with little stories? With fairy tales?"

"Fairy tales?"

"She knows, Simone." His voice dropped low, his hands trembling as she spoke. "She knows. She knows and she spent the whole morning baiting me. Interrogating me. She's scared that I love her because you've been filling her head with little notions of romance."

"I'll change her mind, then. After all, it's a widely known fact that Sebastien Enjolras doesn't do sentiment. He thinks it makes him weak. What he doesn't know is that his greatest weakness is his denial of feeling. Good-day, Sebastien."

He was too cross to speak to her when she returned with Sparrow that afternoon. But if Simone had tried to talk to Sparrow, had tried to make her doubt his love, Sebastien was grateful. And, for the next several days, Sparrow said nothing to Sebastien to suggest his love for her or anyone else. Though she flushed when she saw him, she still sat close when she could. So he believed that her cheeks reddened in the heat of summer and all was well. In the mornings, he sat away from her, safely on the couch when she wrote, and midday he held her just a moment too long when he helped her dismount her horse. For him, it was as much peace as he could ever hope of having with her.

But for Sparrow, it was though she had become no more than kindling and he a growing flame. For now, they could burn together, each necessary for the other's survival. But eventually she would burn up and only he would remain. It would consume her, this imaginary courtship.

"Have you ever wanted to kiss someone so badly it hurts?" Sparrow asked Simone, stepping into her room late Monday evening.

Simone set her book upon her lap. "I thought you were sleeping."

"Have you?"

Simone laughed. "Poor Mademoiselle Sparrow. I'm sorry, but I won't kiss you, however sweetly you ask."

Sparrow sat on the food of her bed. "You wound me."

Simone rolled her eyes and threw her book at Sparrow's head. "What happened to not loving Sebastien?"

Sparrow let herself fall face first into the bed. "I said I wanted to kiss him, not that I loved him." Immediately, she rolled to face Simone. "And I didn't say Sebastien. I just said someone."

"Right. Of course, I forgot about all the other men you know."

Sparrow stuck out her tongue. "What if…I kissed him by accident?"

"Yes. It could work. Your lips just accidentally fall on to his. Absolutely. Perhaps you tongue just accidentally—"

Sparrow cut her off with a shrill giggle. "Simone!"

"What?"

"I'm surprised at you! I thought you above such vulgarity."

"I'd say worse, but it's my cousin you're thinking about."

"I won't be able to see him, will I? Not when they're here."

"Not at all, I'm afraid. The girls are terrible nosy."

"Damn."

Simone clicked her tongue. "You ought to practice not doing that."

"Swearing?"

Simone nodded.

"Do you think I'll have any fun while they're here?" Sparrow rolled closer to Simone.

"I think you'll figure something out. Now, go to bed. It's late."

"Oh! I could get sick. Yes, the very evening they get her, I'll have such a terrible fever that it would be a danger for them. And for me. Maybe they'll have some strange Italian…oh, I don't know! Something I'm too weak to withstand. And then they can go away."

Simone laughed. "Sparrow, you are a darling. A bit crazy, but a darling nonetheless." She reached over to pat Sparrow's head. "Now, leave me and get some sleep. Sebastien says that you're writing is fine, so he'll have you riding all day tomorrow."

Grumbling, Sparrow went off to bed. And, as Simone suggested, as soon as she arrived down for breakfast the next morning, Sebastien sent Sparrow straight back up stairs with a sharp "You can't possibly mount a horse in that."

Her mood only grew worse as he walked her to where the horse stood waiting in the field between the house and the wood.

"You'll have to do more than a walk today, little bird. You need to keep up with the rest of them."

She turned to Adrien, the stableboy. "Should I die today, know it was Monsieur Sebastien who killed me.

The boy smiled. "I'll pray for you."

"Good lad." Sending Adrien back to the house, she turned back to Sebastien. "You're my dearest friend, you know."

Sebastien smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. "And you are mine, little bird. But no flattery will get you out of this."

Sparrow grabbed his hand and pressed her lips to his fingers. "For all the love you bear for me, then, let me disappear."

But Sebastien shook his head and, without another word, helped her mount the horse.

"Are you ready?"

Sparrow stared down at him. "You're a loathsome little boy."

He placed a hand lightly on her knee. "I thought I was your dearest friend."

"You've been possessed by the devil, Sebastien Enjolras."

"Will you save me?"

"It depends."

"On if I let you go back to the house?"

Sparrow smiled. "Clever boy."

"Then call me damned. Now hold on tight."

"Sebastien!"

Sebastien rolled his eyes. "You can't stall forever, little bird."

"Will you miss me?"

He laughed. "Miss you, little bird? You'll only be riding circles around me."

"When Jaime gets here. Will you miss me when you're up in the attic and I'm down here?"

"Will I miss you? What a—"

"Don't. Don't say it."

Sebastien's smiled fell. He moved his hand up to her cheek, wondering if he could ever figure out her mind. "Don't say what?"

"That it's a silly question. Don't tell me it's silly because it really does frightened me. I've never been missed before and I only want to know if you'll miss me. Don't think me silly, Sebastien. Please."

"Look me in the eye, Sparrow. And listen to me." He smiled up at her, removing his hand from her cheek to hold her own once more. "I will miss you desperately."

For a moment, Sparrow was thankful to hear the shout of her name and to see Adrien running back to them.  _If he weren_ _'_ _t here_ , she thought _, I would have had to kiss Sebastien._

But then she heard his words.

"They're here, Mademoiselle! Early, but they're arriving now." Adrien reached for her, beckoning her to dismount her horse. "Mademoiselle, please, they were nearly up to the house when we spotted them!"

Confused, Sparrow turned to Sebastien and reached once more for his hand. "Sebastien," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

But Sebastien quickly took her by her waist and pulled her from the horse. "I'll be fine," he said, holding her close. "I'll go in through the kitchen and I'll be fine. Go with Adrien. I'll see you soon!"

With a quick kiss to her hand he ran off. She missed the warmth of him. Damn her riding gloves.

"Mademoiselle..."

With a deep breath, Sparrow found her voice. "Yes, we should go in now. I wouldn't want to make a poor impression." Head high, she set off for the house. "Take her to the stables, please."

Wordlessly, Adrien obeyed.

When Sparrow came in through the library, she could already hear voices in the entrance hall speaking words she couldn't understand.

_Maybe I could run_ , she thought foolishly.  _Not forever, but enough to put off seeing them. Just for a while_. But the voices were getting louder and louder still. She spun to reopen the door she had only just shut, but the door to the hallway swung open and Simone came in flanked by two girls. The taller of the two was a slender girl with hair nearly as red as Simone's, elaborately curled and braided in a way that gave Sparrow the impression that she had quite a peculiarly shaped head indeed. She wore a dress of blue linen and Sparrow wondered how the girl breathed, what with how tightly her laces seemed to be drawn. The other girl, slightly shorter than her sister, had chestnut hair curled in the same fashion and dark eyes that examined Sparrow under heavy brows. Her hooked nose sat slightly to the left of her face, giving the impression that it had been broken at least once before. She wore a red skirt that swished heavily around her as she walked towards Sparrow and nodded at her.

"Is this her?" Her French was heavily accented.

"Now, now, Charlotte," said the taller girl, presumably Agatha, her own French far superior to her sister's. "The girl's no mute, at least not as far as I've been told, are you, dear?" Her red hair barely moved as she cocked her head to the side.

Sparrow shook her head before, flushing furiously, she realized the foolishness of a wordless respond. "No," she said timidly.

Agatha grinned. "I thought not. Now!" She clapped her hands and sat on the end of the couch, the side on which Sebastien normally sat. Sparrow felt her chest contract. "A cup of tea would be delightful, wouldn't it, Lottie?" (Sparrow couldn't help but notice the way Charlotte seemed to stiffen at the pet name). Agatha looked at Sparrow expectantly.

"I…" She began softly, glancing towards Simone. "I could send for some."

"Nonsense! Simone, pet, you can boil water, can't you?"

Simone spat something in English and, though she could not understand it, Sparrow had to force herself to stifle a laugh at the tone.

"How rude you've become," Agatha exclaimed with a twinkling laugh. "I thought you said she doesn't know English."

Simone winked at Sparrow, not even trying to hide it from her cousins. "I thought it would be less embarrassing for you if I didn't scold you properly in front of someone you just met."

"Well, make it proper, pet, and introduce us."

Simone snorted. "If you haven't noticed, Sparrow, this abominable one here is my dear cousin, Agatha, and the weak one, her sister, Charlotte. Jaime was talking to Papa, but I'm sure he'll be in shortly."

Agatha looked for a moment as though she would very much like to choke the life out of Simone, but thought better of it, seemingly content with just glaring at her. Charlotte flushed and stared at her lap.

The four girls stood in utter silence, Charlotte looking at anything but her companions and Agatha looking between Simone and Sparrow, who were looking at one another as though bursting with words they could not speak. A booming laugh echoed down the hall. Taking advantage of Agatha's momentary distraction, Sparrow nodded and was certain she saw Simone relax. A minute later, the library door opened and Mathieu entered, accompanied by a man who was, perhaps, the most handsome Sparrow had ever seen.

While Agatha's features were pinched and Charlotte's resembled a bird of prey, Jaime's face was as smooth and sculpted as a statue. It was a wonder that he and Sebastien were not related by blood. His hair, black as pitch, was brushed back over his head and stood so perfectly, Sparrow thought it may defy gravity. His eyes, green and sharp (she was sure there was nothing he would ever miss) and reminded her with an odd twinge of a far off wood. To her surprise, he held out his arms and beckoned her to him, grinning.

"This is her, Uncle? The mysterious Sparrow?"

Sparrow looked at Mathieu over Jaime's shoulder. He nodded. Slowly, Sparrow walked to him, reaching up to allow him to take her gloved hands in his own.

"A perfectly lovely girl," he said with a laugh. "And a rider!" Spin around. Let me see you."

Sparrow stared at him, thankful for Simone, who scoffed and said, "You're not an artist nor she an object."

"Rumors of your beauty precede you, Mademoiselle Sparrow," Jaime said, ignoring Simone. He turned back to his uncle, still holding Sparrow by the hands. "I've kept up a correspondence with the young Monsieur LaRoux over the years. I believe you've met him," he added turning back to Sparrow.

"Only in passing," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. She shook her head and drew back her hands. "And I must be furious with either him or yourself for your mockery. I'm afraid I'm not quite worth a trip."

Jaime through back his head as if Sparrow had told a particularly superb jokes. "Nonsense!"

Agatha laughed and told her brother something Sparrow could not understand. And though no one translated for her, Sparrow could only interpret the reaction in so many way; for Charlotte had gasped and covered her mouth as if her sister said something quite naughty, Mathieu had spoken calmly, but coolly in English and stepped to grab his daughter's arm, for Simone had all but launched herself across the room. But Jaime had grinned and offered her his arm. Hesitantly, she accepted and allowed him to lead her to the sofa.

"My sister has a nasty little tongue, doesn't she, Mademoiselle. But I must ask of you: Sparrow?"

Her heart jolted in her chest. "I've yet to hear a question in need of an answer."

Again, Jaime laughed and Sparrow felt certain that she was the punchline of a very long joke.

"Sparrow," he repeated. "Sparrow's a bird. A very pretty bird, no doubt, but a bird nonetheless. And you're a fine young lady. I suppose I'm only curious as to how you won your title."

Mathieu hissed something in English and Sparrow felt her hair prickle. She had never heard him sound so infuriated before. She was sure that if her ever spoke to her in such a manner, she'd run. But Jaime didn't even flinch. Carefully, she looked from Jaime to Mathieu and back again.

"If I told you," she said, forcing a smile, "I'd no longer be the mysterious Sparrow, now would I?"

Jaime only grinned. "A Christian name, at the very least."

She felt as though she might be sick. Agatha sat down on her other side. "What a peculiar little thing she is! Wherever did you find her, Uncle?" She looked at Mathieu with a smile that felt all too familiar.

"Emmanuelle!" Everyone looked at her. Sparrow watched as Simone lowered herself into the arm chair, her eyes wide and her lips parted. She wished they were nearer to each other. "I was called Emmanuelle, but I've been Sparrow as long as I can remember and, truthfully, that name makes me so sad. I think being called so would break my heart."

"Emmanuelle," Agatha repeated. "Such a lovely little name."

Sparrow opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. Jaime grinned at her.

"Why Sparrow then?"

She looked back and forth between Simone and Mathieu for comfort, for assistance, but Mathieu only looked curious and, for the first time Sparrow could recall, Simone looked lost for words.

"My father named me," she said slowly, looking down at her lap. "He named me and my mother hated it. She never once said Emmanuelle in my whole life. A friend, a very dear friend called me Sparrow one day and it felt more my own the Emmanuelle ever did. I just…Monsieur Mathieu and Simone have been very good to never call me Emmanuelle. I hope you'll do the same."

Jaime smiled. "Of course. Agie?"

"How interesting," was Agatha's only comment before the conversation shifted. The visitors began to regale Mathieu with the stories of their travels and no one seemed to notice that neither Sparrow not Simone spoke. They only sat there, across the room from each other, simultaneously trying to stare the other down and avoid eye contact at all costs. It came as a momentary relief when Mathieu permitted his guests to go change for dinner.

At once, Simone rose and swept from the room, a vaguely sick look having settled upon her face. Sparrow hesitated for a moment, considering giving Simone a moment, but Mathieu caught her eye and jerked his head to the door. Quickly, she followed after Simone, half running upstairs. Breathing heavily, she knocked on Simone's door.

"Go away."

"What's wrong?" She stood back as she heard Simone walk towards the door. But it didn't open.

"Leave me be."

"Are you cross with me?"

"I'm changing for dinner, Sparrow. Emmanuelle. Shall I call you Emma?"

Sparrow pouted and slammed a hand against the door.

"You're angry at me! For telling them I'm called Emmanuelle!"

She could hear Simone scoff. "You think you're quite clever, don't you?

"Cleverer than you," Sparrow muttered, reaching to open the door. The knob didn't budge.

"You've locked the door!" Simone was silent. "Simone, let me in!" Again, Sparrow pounded on the door. "You don't get to be mad at me, Simone! You don't!" She kicked the door and winced. "See what you've done? Now I'm angry  _and_ my foot hurts!" When Simone didn't say anything, a nasty thought occurred to Sparrow. Quickly and silently, she said a prayer that she wouldn't regret anything and banged again on the door. "You're an entitled little brat, Simone Anais Enjolras. You think you own me. Is that it? Am I your pet?" She kicked the door again. She hadn't meant to make herself cry. "I don't even think you care about me at all!"

The door wrenched open. "You vile little fool!" Simone hissed, but pulled Sparrow into her room. Slamming the door behind her, she pointed to the bed. "Sit."

Sparrow obeyed, glaring at Simone even as she wiped her nose with her sleeve. Simone crossed her arms and sighed.

"If you wanted to make me angry enough to open the door, there are about a thousand other things that you could have said, all less harmful to yourself."

"Sorry."

Simone walked over and sat beside her. "Do you really think that, Sparrow? That I don't love you? That I'd be so possessive as to ever stop loving you?"

Sparrow shook her head. "It felt it, though."

"You hurt me, Sparrow. More hurt than anyone ever has." Simone sighed. "I never needed your name, not really. I just…I only hoped that if you ever did share it, it would be with me. Or Sebastien."

Sparrow laughed.

"I'm trying to be serious with you, Sparrow!"

"You! Oh god, Simone, I didn't think you…" Her laughter ceased as Simone stared in confusion. She shook her head. "I'm not called Emmanuelle. I only ever was in make believe. It was my favorite name as a child — my aunt. I idolized her. She was everything my mother wasn't." She grasped Simone's hands. "I swear to you, I've never been called Emmanuelle. I…" She stared down at her lap, wondering how much truth she should give. She couldn't stand having Simone cross with her, not even for a moment. "It's my second name," she said so softly that Simone leaned in closer. "They would have called me that, but my father believed it to be tempting the fates to name a baby after a living person. Not a first name. But my aunt lived with us with I was a baby and so they gave me her name, but never as my only name. When I was little and they were angry, they'd throw it between my first name and surname, but it was never my only name. And when she died, my father stopped saying it completely. But that's all it was. Just a gesture. I don't even know if it was official."

"You're not Emmanuelle."

"Only in pretend."

Simone nodded. "I'd have forgiven you even if you were."

"I know."

"It is a pretty name."

"But not mine."

"No."

Sparrow rested her head on Simone's shoulder. "Will your father be cross with me?"

"I doubt it. He's far nobler than I am."

"I should go to him."

Simone squeezed her hand. "I do care for you very much."

Sparrow nodded. "I know." She paused for a moment. "Simone?"

"Hm?"

"What did Agatha say about me before? And what did you say to her?"

"Oh!" Simone laughed. "Well, I called her an ugly cow."

Sparrow giggled. "And what did see say to Jaime?"

Simone paused for a minute, squeezing Sparrow's knee. "She…well, she said that you were right. That you were skinny — a worthless woman. She asked if you were even a woman at all."

To Simone's surprise, Sparrow laughed. "That's what my mother used to tell me. I'm too skinny, she would say. No man wants a woman with hips smaller than his own. Bad breeding."

Simone snorted. "Ah, well, if that's the case." She shrugged. "He won't be cross with you. He loves you too much. He was absolutely furious that you've decided 'uncle' suits him better than 'Papa.'"

"Trust me, 'uncle' is far superior in my book." She took Simone's hand and squeezed it.

"I left a pair of evening gloves in your room," Simone said softly. "They won't question it if you always keep your hands covered. Less questions."

Sparrow stood and gave Simone a weak smile. "Less questions," she repeated. And she left.

The study door was shut when she got there and her breath hitched. She didn't know what she'd do if Mathieu felt as Simone had. Trembling, she knocked on the door.

"Monsieur Mathieu?"

"Who is 'Monsieur?'" was the only response.

Hesitantly, she pushed open the door. "Uncle Mathieu?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"I want to apologize," she said quietly. "And perhaps clarify—"

"That you have never been called Emmanuelle by any figure of authority in your life?" He looked up and smiled. "No matter how many times my nieces commented on Mademoiselle Emmanuelle, my Sparrow didn't respond, she didn't even look up. Perhaps it's a name dear to you, a name you may have been toying with for a while, but it is not your name."

"No, Uncle."

Mathieu laughed. "It's foreign to you, isn't it? 'Uncle.'"

"I only had an aunt."

"Did you?"

Sparrow nodded. "Emmanuelle."

"Ah, I suppose your choice makes sense now. A lovely name, but it suites you poorly. I'll keep calling you Sparrow, if it's all the same to you."

"Thank you."

"Now," Mathieu said, clapping his hands, "so that your trip down here wasn't in vain, I have something for you — no, don't give me that. You are, my dear, as deserving as anyone. But this is not from me. If you would be so kind," he gestured to the door.

Sparrow pulled it shut and took a stepped closer.

"Sebastien," said Mathieu softly, "would like for you to continue your writing, even when he is not here to teach you." From his desk, he drew a leather bound book and handed it to her. She held it, her heart swelling as she ran her fingers over the cover, for etched into the dark leather was a sparrow. Mathieu smiled as he continued. "You inspired him with your birthday present, you see."

"It's lovely."

"He asked me to tell you that no one, not even Sebastien himself, will read what you write in here. It is only for you."

Sparrow nodded, unsure of words to express her gratitude. But Mathieu seems to understand.

"When Marguerite goes up to bring him dinner, I shall have her relay your thanks and affection."

"Thank you," she managed.

Mathieu reached out and squeezed her hand. "Now, go and change for dinner."

She nodded and hurried to her room. She sat in her bed, the journal open in her lap. Written on the top of the first page, in a slanted, narrow script were the words, "Herein lies the private Thoughts and Sentiments of a Bird," and below them, even smaller, "With great Affection, from Sebastien."

She never ended up changing for dinner. When Simone finally came into her room, she still sat in her bed, tracing those little words with her finger. Simone pretended not to notice. A quarter of an hour later, she was downstairs, ready for dinner.

Both Sparrow and Simone only managed to stay awake by pinching the other's wrist each time she began to doze off. By the end of the meal, Sparrow was certain she would never need to visit Florence or Rome or Vienna or Berlin - Jaime had ensured that she knew everything one would ever need to know about each city he and his sisters as visited. She had nodded politely and made the appropriate comments of "Oh, how lovely!" or "Is that so?" whenever Jaime paused to breathe. He grew less handsome by the word.

By bedtime, Sparrow was exhausted, but she couldn't dare sleep. She sat in her bed with her lamp still lit, journal on her lap and a pencil in her hand. She was still sitting there, staring pensively at the wall, when Simone came in the next morning. She only laughed and said "You should have slept — Agatha's insisted on a picnic," before she left again.

But Sparrow didn't mind. She pulled the white afternoon dress from her wardrobe and dressed quickly.

"You seem to have had sweet dreams, Mademoiselle," Jaime told her as she walked into the breakfast room.

She only nodded. She felt lighter, more at peace, than she had in several months, possibly in her whole life. She felt quite content indeed. Even as she mounted her mare, she remained calm. And it was only when they reached their destination — a small clearing in the wood, right on the bank of the stream — did she lay her head against Simone's shoulder and drift off to sleep. She remained dozing on Simone's shoulder for over an hour, vaguely conscious of the laughter of her companions. Once or twice, she felt someone (likely Simone) adjust her bonnet to keep her face from burning in the sun. She awoke properly only when she felt water dripping onto her hand.

"Is it raining?" she asked suddenly, sitting straight up. But as her bonnet fell from her face (she would have to thank Simone later for shielding her), she saw that the sun still shone brightly through the trees.

Agatha and Charlotte laughed. And hand flew down to her and Sparrow followed it up to a sopping wet Jaime.

"Care to swim?"

Sparrow shook her head.

"Why, Simone!" Agatha exclaimed. "I thought you said she asked only last week if there was a place to swim."

Sparrow turned to glare at Simone.  _Not with them_ , she thought furiously. Based on Simone's flushed cheeks, Sparrow gathered she understood her mistake. Jaime continued to hold out his hand.

"At least come feel the water." He smiled.

Sparrow took a deep breath and nodded, reached down and unloading her shoes.

"Do you enjoy swimming, Mademoiselle?"

"I've never swam before, Monsieur."

Agatha and Charlotte giggled. She looked to Jaime for an explanation.

"Monsieur is odd to them. To me as well."

"Mister Jaime. That's what you like, isn't it?"

Jaime grinned. "Clever girl." He sat down on the bank and pushed himself into the water. "May I teach you to swim?"

Sparrow forced herself to smile. "No, thank you."

"It's a shame. It's quite refreshing."

Hesitantly, Sparrow dipped in her toe. She shivered. "Far too cold."

"Oh, come now! Lottie! Charlotte, come join us!"

Wordlessly, Charlotte walked over. Her feet were bare and Sparrow realize that the lower half of her skirt was still half wet.

"Tell her it will be fun."

Charlotte smiled. "I enjoy it. Really."

But Sparrow shook her head.

Jaime sighed. "Very will, then. Give us a hand?" He reached up, beckoning Sparrow to help him out of the water. She only just heard Simone cry out, "Don't you dare!"

And then, for only a moment, she was floating on the air, her toes barely scraping the bank. Charlotte gasped. Jaime and Agatha laughed. And, with a splash, Sparrow fell into the stream.


	16. Shatterproof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Massive trigger warnings for attempted suicide, mention of past suicide attempts, drowning, and parental abuse. But mainly suicide and drowning. If you chose not to read this chapter or stop part way through, please feel free to message me. I can summarize it for you or give you an edited version of the chapter, free of your triggers. I debated a lot with myself about this chapter, it was very hard to write at parts. So, please, feel free to talk to me about this chapter.
> 
> A/N: Thank you Mel for being so so amazing this chapter (and always). Love you <3

 

_"Sometimes I go out at night and don't come home. Last winter, before coming here, we lived under the bridges. You had to huddle together not to freeze and it made my little sister cry. Water's dreadful, isn't it? Sometimes I wanted to drown myself, but then I thought, No, it's too cold."_

 

— "Éponine," Victor Hugo, Les Misérables, Vol. IIV, Book VIII, Chapter iv.

* * *

 

The world froze.

First, time slowed. Simone's voice seemed to linger in the air, her words taking years, perhaps millennia, to reach the banks. Jaime kept a firm grasp on her hand, still smiling at her. But there was no warmth to it. Cold, colder, freezing. The world around her seemed to falter, but when it reached her, she froze from the inside out. Her lungs trembled before her skin registered what had happened. The curls and braids, still intact from the previous evening, broke loose and seemed to consciously wrap themselves around her neck. She tried to kick, but her skirts objected and held her legs in place. She swung her arms and her face found air.

"Jaime, you fool! Help her!"

But before she could decide to breathe, she went under again. It was so, so cold. Her face broke free and this time she remembered to breathe. Someone was splashing towards her. Or maybe away. Jaime's voice sounded so distant.

"If she had half a brain, she'd just stand."

But didn't he know her legs had stopped working? That they had frozen over and died?

But  _she_  didn't want to die. She squeezed her eyes shut. The other girl had been so desperate to die. And perhaps she had succeeded, for the girl called Sparrow did not want to die — she couldn't believe anyone she used to be could ever have.

Someone pulled her up, and let out and exasperated sigh.

"Surely you're not so incompetent as to just lie there. You have a body, can't you use it?" Jaime gave her a small shake.

From the bank, someone laughed and said something she couldn't understand and Charlotte gasped, " _Agatha_!"

Sparrow's feet found the ground and she pulled herself from Jaime with all her might. Simone grabbed her from behind and began dragging her to the bank. The water just reached her shoulders.  _He would have let me drown_. Sparrow shook her head and, clambering up the bank, broke free of Simone.

"Sparrow, it's alright. You're fine, Sparrow, I'm here."

Trembling in the grass, Sparrow brought her hands to her cheeks. Water dripped from her hair and mingled with still falling tears.

"I've got to go!" She turned and ran to her horse.

"Sparrow, what are you doing? You're shivering." Simone grabbed her wrist. "Sparrow!"

Sparrow spun around, her eyes wide, almost maniacally so. "I've got to, I've got…" She turned back and began to hoist herself onto her horse. "I've got to, Simone."

Simone nodded, seeming to understand. She squeezed her hand. "Go."

Sparrow was almost at the edge of the wood when she began to properly cry. She kicked the horse to go faster, clutching at the reins and sobbing. She could see someone in the distance, out behind the house. Adrien. She kicked the horse again.

"Mademoiselle!"

She pushed herself from the horse the moment it began to slow. The ground came rushing to meet her and her knees burned as she struggled to stand.

"Mademoiselle, you're soaking."

She looked around. "I need…I need…" she broke off and began running towards the house, her knees be damned. Adrien could see to the horse.

She entered through the library, thankful to find it empty. Quickly as she could, she raced upstairs, stumbling as she reached the top. But she continued, only just remembering to shut the attic door behind her. There was silence as she made her way to the top.

"Sebastien!"

She heard him shuffle in the corner before he stepped into the light. With a sob, she threw herself at him.

"What are you doing? What happened?" He stepped back from her, running his hands down her arms to grab her hands. He looked her up and down, standing as far away as he could while still maintaining that blessed bit of contact. "You're soaked to the bone, little bird. Tell me what happened."

Though concern poured from his eyes and mouth, he was calm. How could he be so calm? The world had exploded, imploded, torn itself apart, sewn itself up inside out. She didn't recognize this world anymore. Even her own face, she was sure, would be unfamiliar in the looking glass. But Sebastien was still there. She still knew him. The world could not be that distorted while he was still there. Letting go of his hands, she held her arms out, angled up to embrace him like a child after a terrible scare. But perhaps that's what she was, perhaps she was not half as grown as she pretended to be. Her vision blurred and her face twisted with the renewal of her sobs.

"Shh, shh." Sebastien immediately wrapped her tightly in his arms, rubbing her back. "Tell me what's wrong. Let me help you." He cupped her face in his hands, turning it up to face him. She was so close to him, she could see the sweat on his brow and feel his breath on her face. She shook her head.

"I don't want to die."

"Sparrow," he breathed, and she wondered what her own name, her old name might feel like, breathed rather than spoken upon her face. She shut her eyes as his thumbs rubbed the tears from her cheeks. He didn't understand. "I don't think you are going to die anytime soon." He was smiling when she opened her eyes.

"No," she said firmly, begging him to understand. "I don't…I don't want to die, Sebastien, I don't want to die."

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Well, I don't want you to die, either."

"No!" She stomped her foot. "You don't understand! You don't…you don't get it! You're not listening!" She broke with fresh sobs and buried her face in his chest. "I don't want to die. I don't want to die, I can't! I can't…I can't breathe! I can't breathe. Oh, my god!" She backed away, hysterical, clawing at her bodice. "Sebastien! Sebastien, I can't breathe!"

She pulled at her neckline, but it only contracted tighter around her chest. She could hear Sebastien speaking, but couldn't understand the words. If she couldn't breathe, she would die.

"I can't! I can't! I can't!"

Suddenly, Sebastien's fingers were around her wrists, pulling her hands away from her. "Look at me, Sparrow," he said, his voice so firm that she forgot to continue crying. She froze and looked at him. "I need you to close your eyes." She obeyed. "Good. I need you to breathe, Sparrow. Breathe in very slowly. One…two…three…That's good, little bird. You're going to be fine. Now breathe out. One…two…" He continued counting, holding her hands between them. She looked so small as she stood before them, her dressed still soaked and hanging heavily on her frame. Her hair fell in a sopping mess over her shoulders. "Better?"

Sparrow nodded, her eyes still squeezed shut. She breathed in slowly through chattering teeth. "I'm going to let go of you now. Only for a moment."

Sparrow considered speaking, but thought better of it and contented herself with simply nodding.

Sebastien released her and she could hear him walk quickly and quietly around the attic. And then he returned, setting a firm hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes.

"I'm going to go over there," he said, nodding towards the far corner. "And I'll keep my back turned until you tell me otherwise." He gestured to the bed that had been set up for him by the attic's one window. Folded at the foot was a nightshirt and a dressing gown she knew was Sebastien's own.

She nodded again and walked over to the bed. She waited until Sebastien's back was to her and quickly stripped her wet clothes. Never before had she felt freer from her corset. She stood there breathing in only her chemise for a moment, making sure Sebastien's back was still turned, before she stripped to nothingness. She wrapped her arms around herself; whether for modesty or cold, she could not say. There had been a time when she lived near nakedness, wearing only whatever scraps she could find. She hadn't minded it then. But now she understood what it meant to feel naked, to feel vulnerable and exposed. To feel small and alone in a world that was simultaneously too big for her, and yet closing in around her, suffocating her. She was frightened of everything and of nothing and wanted desperately to run to Sebastien, to make him hold her and to be reminded that the world, however large or small it might be, could not consume her. But she couldn't. She breathed slowly — in then out, in then out — before slipping into the nightshirt. It smelled like him.

"It's so cold," she whispered, her voice seeming far off, as though coming from her own world.

Sebastien stiffened. "Are you dressed?"

"Yes. Sebastien, I'm so cold."

He turned and smiled at her, his eyes flickering to her bare legs. She felt pitied, and blushed, brought back into reality. Looking down, she saw two small red spots growing slowly at her knees. She had forgotten to feel any pain.

"Oh!"

"It's alright."

"I've ruined it!"

"It can wash out. What happened?"

She shook her head. "I don't know anymore. I think I fell."

"Fell?"

"From my horse, I think. Turn again. I'll take it off and soak it."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sparrow." He smiled again. "Why don't you lay down for a minute?"

She shook her head and seemed to return to her own far off land. "Why is it so cold?"

"Take my bed, little bird," he said. "I just got up — I won't sleep anytime soon."

She remained stationary. She opened her mouth, but could not find the right words to say. Sebastien came and held out his arms to her. Wordlessly, she let him embrace her.

"Tell me what's going on inside your head."

Sparrow pressed her ear to his heart. "I don't want to die," she said again.

"Then tell me why."

"Because I think I want to live."

She felt him smile against her head. "I don't think that's abnormal, little bird."

"It is for me."

His arms tightened around her and she thought that perhaps now he understood. Without a word, he scooped her into his arms and sat down on his bed, cradling her in his lap. She continued without prompting:

"Did you know, Sebastien, I very nearly tried to kill myself once? Well, twice, I suppose — and the second time I think, in a way, I succeeded. But I used to fantasize about dying. I always thought that if I could just get myself into the river, I wouldn't have any more problems. I wanted to die all the time. I suppose if you knew me then, that wouldn't surprise you. There were too many people who could have killed me, and if they didn't, surely I would starved during one winter or another. So I never had much reason to try to live, because dying young was the only thing I was certain of. And if it was my destiny, there was no need to try so hard to live. I just…living wasn't worth it. Not for me. So it shouldn't surprise you that, at times, I wanted to kill myself. It was never a threat, you know. Never once did I say, 'Papa, if you don't love me, I shall kill myself.' It was just something I wanted to do from time to time.

"I tried once. I was standing on the bridge and everything." She shut her eyes, feelings his arms tighten around her. "Do I frighten you, Sebastien?"

"No," he said, and Sparrow knew he was lying. He seemed to sense her hesitation and told her, "It's alright. I'm here. Go on."

She dropped her head upon his shoulder and whispered to his chin, as though it would save him from truly hearing her words.

"It was, I believe, two winters ago, perhaps. And I would often just lie there, wondering if I would be happier dead. I used to go out at night. During the day, I was subject to my parents, to my siblings. You understand, don't you, Sebastien, how hard it is to be alone when you live with your whole family? But we were still, well, we weren't happy, but we found some goodness. It was a very cold winter. I don't know if you were in Paris then. Come to think of it, I'm afraid I know little more of your life than you do of mine. But that's of little importance today. It was cold and nothing could keep us warm. My sister cried all the time, so I used to try to make her happy. None of us were and none of us could be, but it's awfully annoying to try to sleep with your half-grown sister crying all through the night. So I'd distract her. I remember the whole night vividly, not just the trying to die part because it was the first time I found myself thinking, 'Papa may kill me yet.'

"A very silly man — Papa. We annoyed each other terribly. Not like Simone and Uncle Mathieu (he told me to call him 'uncle,' you know? It's an odd word, but I quite like it). Well, they still love each other, even when he is too harsh or she's a bit spoiled. I hate him — my father. I used to love him very much because he loved me and little girls ought to love their fathers. And, I think, until this point, I believed our misery was temporary. Papa was Papa. He could do everything and anything and all would be well. But he made a rather nasty comment that night. He said to my mother, 'We could eat tomorrow if she goes out tonight.' And I was just a child, so it took me a moment to understand. And then I realized, but I was cross with him so I said, 'Silly Pa, there's plenty of girls out there with far fairer faces than my own. It's the ones who want other men that struggle. If you went out tonight, we'd eat all week!'"

She laughed coldly, as though the tale she was telling was a funny one. "I've told you in some way or another, Sebastien, that we had little money, but you never really believe it to be so desperate, did you? But it was desperate enough that my father considered whoring me out (he didn't, mind you), and I told him he'd be a more successful whore than me. So he grabbed me by my hair and slammed my face into a wall. Maman flinched, I could tell, but she didn't say a word. And, so I thought, 'Tonight seems like a pleasant night to die.' And I was determined that my father would not kill me. You see, he'd never hit me like that before. If I was being particularly nasty, he might whack me over the head, but nothing like that. He broke my nose, I think, and knocked out a tooth that night. But I didn't cry. I never cried in front of anyone if I could help it. A big change, I know. I think I cry every day now. You must be quite special to me, if I let you see me cry. I didn't like to cry in front of Papa, not since I was a little child. So I just smiled at him and left. I didn't even say good-bye. He wasn't worth it.

"So I went for a walk and wondered how I ought to die. And it was one of those freezing rain types of night, where it's neither rain nor snow nor hail falling. Like little bits of soft ice coming from the sky. And I could hear them falling in to the river and it didn't seem like a terrible idea. So I went and stood on the wall of a bridge. There was a lamp and I was watching this frozen rain fall into the river and it was so beautiful. Part of me didn't want to ruin that beauty."

"Is that what stopped you?" he could not help but ask. It was the first time he had spoken. She shook her head against his shoulder and was tempted to repeat his own words back to him.  _It_ _'_ _s alright. I_ _'_ _m here_.

"There was a group of boys, men, I don't really know. I didn't look at them. I think they were drunk. At least a couple of them were, I'm sure. One of them sat down at my feet and asked if I was going to jump. He said, and I remember it so clearly because he was telling me so quietly, not loud enough for his friends and I almost believed him. He said, 'I think about it, too, Mademoiselle, but you never know what will happen tomorrow.' But I ignored him because I didn't want to wait to find out. And a few of them said other things. And then one of them told me that the jump wouldn't kill me. That I'd likely drown, but it would be slow. And that the water would be cold. It would be painful. And he told me that death should not be harder than life. I hate the cold. I wouldn't drown myself in it. So I went home. And for such a long time, I would still think about new ways to die. That night was the first time I worried my father might kill me, but there were more later. But now, when I think about it, I don't want to die. I haven't wanted to die in a long time. I thought about it, on my last birthday. I thought, 'This world hates me and seventeen years is a long enough life,' and I sat in my window and I was no one. I had no name. No one would miss me. But I haven't wanted to die since then, not since I stopped being her and became Sparrow and, truly, I think I want to keep living and I don't want to die at all and seventeen years isn't nearly a long life. And I was in the water and I couldn't find the surface and I just wanted to get out, but it was so cold — I couldn't move!

"Sebastien," she said, and her voice, which had been so steady throughout her story, broke at last. "Sebastien, I'm so cold!"

Without speaking, Sebastien shifted, moving Sparrow off of him and lying her down on the bed. She curled up against his pillow, shivering and sobbing and whispering, again and again, that she was so very cold. Quickly he got up and went to the chest at the end of the bed. It was so hot in the attic in summertime, that the previous night he had declined to use any blanket at all. But now he emptied the chest of its contents and returned to Sparrow, lifting her to wrap her in an old quilt before laying her down again. He lay another blanket over her and still she shook. When he bent to kiss her brow (an action he never had imagined would come so naturally to him, never so intricately woven with the words 'goodbye' and 'goodnight'), he skin was hot against his lips. He hadn't realized it before, maybe he had chosen not to. He wondered what the time was and hoped Marguerite would come up soon with his lunch. Perhaps she could help him take Sparrow back downstairs. Uncle Mathieu could send for the doctor.

"Try and sleep," he told her. And, as he brushed her hair from her face, he saw that his hand shook as well.

"It's so cold."

"I know. But if you sleep, it'll get warmer."

She shut her eyes and turned her back on him, reaching one hand back over her shoulder. He took it. "Will you stay with me?"

"Of course."

Still holding her hand, he leaned back against the headboard and, with his other hand, continued to stroke her hair as she drifted off to sleep. He tried to imagine how it would have looked some two and a half years before. Would it have been longer? Shorter, perhaps? But when he shut his eyes, he could nearly see it tangling in the wind. The winding hair of a faceless child, glistening in the sleet.  _A pixie_ , a familiar voice laughed, filling his mind.  _Or some wicked and cunning spirit._ His heart pounded furiously in his chest and he fought to keep his breathing steady. She had to sleep, he mustn't worry her. But the memory was fast reconstructing itself in his mind. Grantaire singing. Courfeyrac laughing. Combeferre telling him that work could wait until morning. He willed himself out of his own mind.

" _It_ _'_ _s a decent plan, I won_ _'_ _t deny it,_ _"_ _he said, speaking more loudly than he would have liked. Between the wind and Grantaire, the night was full of noise._ _"_ _I only think_ _—"_

_Combeferre_ _'_ _s hand was heavy on his shoulder._ _"_ _I think you worry too much, Enjolras. Nothing is happening anytime soon._ _"_

" _You say that, but I don_ _'_ _t think there exists a time too soon._ _"_

_There was a snort of drunken laughter from the three men walking before them and Courfeyrac turned around to speak to them, relying only on Grantaire_ _'_ _s arm to guide him. A foolish and all too common mistake._

" _Shall it be tonight then? Or am I allowed to wait until morning? There_ _'_ _s a pretty little thing across the street from me. Not the best, but a perfectly acceptable final night._ _"_

_Combeferre aimed a kick at him, but Enjolras only sighed. On his other side, Joly grumbled and pulled his hat down further over his ears._

" _It_ _'_ _s freezing. We should walk faster._ _"_

_Enjolras said nothing, but adjusted his scarf, wrapping it tighter around him. Joly was right_ _—_ _he couldn_ _'_ _t remember a colder night in his life. He had been hoping his friends would leave and he and Combeferre could have a proper conversation (for there had been much drinking that night and no one else seemed capable of appreciating the importance of anything). But even Combeferre was less sober than he would have liked and the evening had been, truthfully, worthless. There was whispering from in front of him and another burst of laughter rang through the night._

" _I_ _'_ _ve a brilliant idea, Enjolras,_ _"_ _shouted Lesgles._ _"_ _No, no_ _—_ _listen! R, shut up! You can_ _'_ _t carry a tune anyway. So I believe that we find a pretty girl_ _—_ _Courfeyrac_ _'_ _s will do_ _—_ _and we hand her up to our noble king and_ _—"_

" _You_ _'_ _re quite drunk,_ _"_ _said Enjolras. He needed to hear no more._

" _Let us have our fun._ _"_

_Grantaire began to sing again._

_Enjolras turned to Combeferre._ _"_ _I don_ _'_ _t think_ their _immaturity should have any impact on_ _—"_

" _Come off it. It_ _'_ _s late, it_ _'_ _s nearly Christmastime. Surely even you know when to enjoy yourself. I_ _'_ _ll even do you a favor: my landlady_ _'_ _s got a beautiful girl. Seventeen, unattached._ _"_

" _You_ _'_ _re as bad as they are._ _"_

" _Now, what have we here!_ _"_

_Courfeyrac_ _'_ _s voice rang out through the night. Grantaire stopped singing._

" _What is this?_ _"_ _continued Courfeyrac._ _"_ _A pixie? Or some wicked and cunning spirit come to drag us all to hell?_ _"_

_Enjolras looked to where his friends were approaching. Standing on the ledge of the bridge, arms tight around the lamppost, was what appeared to be a young girl. He could not see her face, but going by her stature, she could not be more than a child, standing out in the cold in nothing but a chemise, petticoat, and too large boots. Her arms and legs appeared completely bare._

" _How goes it, Mademoiselle?_ _"_ _Courfeyrac shouted. Grantaire had already made it to her and had sat himself on the ledge beside her. He seemed to be talking to her, but she did not even flinch. Grantaire rose and returned quickly to his friends._

" _Do we pull her off?_ _"_ _His voice was an odd contradiction of slurred inebriation and somber steadiness._ _"_ _Is it truly an abduction if it_ _'_ _s for her own good?_ _"_

" _You know her?_ _"_ _Combeferre seemed surprise, but Grantaire shook his head._

" _It_ _'_ _s too pretty a night to off herself._ _"_

_Comberferre walked slowly over to the girl and held out his hand._ _"_ _There_ _'_ _s a beautiful new world coming, Mademoiselle. It would be a shame to miss it._ _"_

_The girl remained still. From a distance, she might have appeared to be a statue, a memorial to a girl who died rather than a living, breathing creature, balancing between life and death._

" _Why don_ _'_ _t you come down?_ _"_

" _You_ _'_ _ll catch your death of cold._ _"_

"Surely, you're not serious, Joly! _"_ _Lesgles exclaimed in an undertone, his tone also sobered by the girl_ _'_ _s appearance._

_Enjolras cleared his throat._ _"_ _It_ _'_ _s deep here. Or deeper than some other parts, at the very least. You_ _'_ _re likely to survive jumping. And perhaps you_ _'_ _d drown. But perhaps you_ _'_ _d wash up half alive on a bank and someone will find you before you die. And even if not, drowning_ _'_ _s quite painful, I hear. And at this time of year, the cold would be more painful than you can imagine. Like there air, only a hundred thousand times worse. And it will consume you from the inside out. And you will regret your choice to jump, but it will be too late and you_ _'_ _ll never be warm again. Death should never be harder or more terrible than life. But that is what it will be, should you chose to jump. And my friends are drunken fools who would surely jump in after you. And then you_ _'_ _d be forced to spend eternity knowing that you brought their souls with you._ _"_

_Courfeyrac jabbed him with his shoulder._ _"_ _Are you insane, Enjolras?_ _"_ _he hissed softly enough that the girl would not hear._ _"_ _That_ _'_ _s simply cruel!_ _"_

_Enjolras ignored him._ _"_ _I can only imagine that the river tonight is far colder than Hell is hot._ _"_

_After a moment_ _'_ _s silence, the girl spun around, hopped back down to the bridge, and walked through them. She stopped beside Enjolras, staring at his feet. She looked even smaller close up_ _—_ _skin and bones, with her mess of hair not even reaching his chest. A girl of twelve, perhaps thirteen. A child._ _"_ _I wouldn_ _'_ _t have,_ _"_ _she said, her voice squeaking with childhood and croaking like an aged hag all at the same time._ _"_ _No, the water will be too cold._ _"_ _Though her voice was soft in the wind, she spoke boldly, as though the idea was her own._

_Before any of the men could respond, or even blink, she was gone. Dark hair and blue skin stretched over bones. No different than any other waif of Paris._

" _That,_ _"_ _declared Enjolras, pointing into the darkness that had swallowed the child,_ _"_ that _is why there is not a time too soon._ _"_

He could tell from her breathing that she had fallen asleep, but her grip on his hand remained strong. A creature, he had thought of that wretched child. A symbol for a cause.  _It was easier_ , he assured himself _. To see her as not a human_. He had written Simone that night. He could remember each detail. "It," he had said. Never "she." He had written that he hoped that the poor creature had inspired his friends. He could almost see his hand gliding over the page. "It may very well bring about a new France and, I should hope, live to see it."

But the woman beside him, she was no it. She was no creature, no symbol existing only as inspiration. He bent down to once again kiss her brow.

"I would never use you," he whispered. "I'm sorry if I ever tried."

She did not stir.

He shook his head and straightened. Of all the girls in Paris, how could his Sparrow and the poor little waif be one and the same?

Of course, maybe they weren't. There had to be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of young women living on the street and he was sure no small percentage of them lost the will to live.

But she had said those words, his words, back to him. He thought of waking her, asking her if she knew, really knew who spoke to her that night. But he couldn't. It would be a far greater kindness to not speak of it. He sighed.

She had been right and cruelly so. She told him day after day of the misery of the life she used to lead. But he had never for a moment considered the extent of it. He never imagined her starving through the winter, wearing only scraps of clothing even on the coldest days. He hadn't really listened.

The door downstairs burst open and Sebastien froze.

"Uncle!" he exclaimed, as Mathieu came into view. He extracted himself from her and rose. Mathieu was panting.

"I only just saw Adrien," he managed. "What the Hell is going on?"

Sebastien shook his head. "I don't know. I think she fell in the stream, but I don't know. Are the others home yet?"

"No. I assume Simone figured she would come to you and stalled the others. Though I doubt that was much of a task. They don't seem to have made the warmest of acquaintances. Agatha's vulgarity, I will say, shocked even me. Tell me what happened. Adrien said she fell off her horse."

"I don't know," Sebastien repeated. "She showed up here soaking wet. Her knees are cut up, but nothing terrible. She's feverish, though."

Mathieu nodded and approached her. "She's not overheated?" he asked, gesturing the blankets wrapped around her. "It's hot as Hell up here."

Sebastien shook his head. "She started crying she was so cold."

Mathieu lay a hand upon Sparrow's head. "She's burning up. We should take her downstairs."

"I don't want to wake her."

"She won't wake, don't worry. Take her to her room and leave before the others return. I'll send Marguerite to sit with her and call for the doctor."

Nodding, Sebastien listen her into his arms and carefully made his way down the stairs. He met Simone in the hallway.

"What are you doing?" She half whispered, half shrieked.

"Where are the others?"

"Still outside, I went ahead. They'll be in in a moment. Is she alright?"

"No. Will you get the door?"

Simone hurriedly opened the door to Sparrow's room and stepped inside. "Care to elaborate?"

"She came running into the attic, crying and saying how cold she was. For a moment, I thought she'd been attacked. Soaking wet, bleeding from the knees—"

" _Bleeding_?"

"She fell from her horse. She wouldn't stop crying and…" He trailed off.

"And?"

But it wasn't his tale to tell. "And then fell asleep. She's got a fever. Your father is sending for the doctor."

"Jaime pulled her into the water. I didn't even have time to stop him. I knew she couldn't swim, but —"

"You didn't know she was terrified of water," Sebastien said, finishing her sentence.

"No. Did you?"

"No," Sebastien said, lying Sparrow on the bed. Immediately, she turned onto her side and curled her knees up to her chest. "I don't think she did either. She wanted to learn how to swim." He smiled. "It was the first thing she asked when I told her we were coming here. She wanted to know if my uncle lived near water and if I would teach her how to swim."

" _Simone_! Simone, where are you?"

Quickly, Sebastien bent down and kissed Sparrow's brown. He turned to Simone, who was wide-eyed at the sound of Jaime's voice, kissed her cheek and said, "Take good care of her," before disappearing out the door.

Nodding, Simone walked over and sat down beside Sparrow.

"Poor bird girl. Poor, poor Sparrow," she said softly, stroking Sparrow's hair. "Why must everything terrible happen to you?" She began to hum softly, leaning back upon Sparrow pillows. The door creaked open and Marguerite came in.

"Oh, thank goodness! I thought you might be Jaime or Agatha."

Marguerite clucked. "Lucky you, then. Go on, now. They're your guests. I'll stay with…What is it Agatha keeps calling her? Emmanuelle?"

"Her aunt, she says."

Marguerite pursed her wrinkled lips. "Is that so?"

"I believe her, don't you?"

"Of course." A grey curl fell into her eye and, most unusually, she let it hang there over her face, making no movement to push it back. "You should go, darling. Don't want to catch anything."

"Oh, she's just got the chills!"

Marguerite crossed her arms. "Well, if it's just the chills, I'll go and tell  _Mister Jaime_  he can come right up."

"Really?"

Marguerite nodded at the door. "I'll watch her, darling. I assure you she'll be fine with me. But I don't think she would want him coming up here any more than you do. And I haven't got another way to stop him."

With a sigh, Simone stood. "Do you really think it's just the chills? A summer fever?"

"I'd bet on it. Your Papa sent for the doctor, but you know how he is. Slightest sneeze and he's calling the best doctors he can."

"Sebastien was worried," said Simone, dropping her voice.

"At any moment he can't see that girl actively smiling and enjoying herself, your cousin is worried about her. Come to think of it, even when she is smiling, he's worried about her. Now go."

Rolling her eyes, Simone obeyed. No sooner had she shut the door than she heard her name. Jaime stood a few steps from the bottom, a look of deep concern etched upon his face.

"I could slap the insincerity right off your face!"

"My uncle said he was fetching a doctor. Surely, she's not so ill?"

"Would you care if she was?"

"Why, Simone! What a nasty thing to say."

"I haven't been allowed into to see her," Simone spat, walking down towards him. "Marguerite said she was burning up and all clammy. Lips near blue. She started coughing something terrible when I was leaving and Marguerite gasped and shut the door in my face."

"Is she consumptive?"

Simone took great pleasure at the genuine fear creeping up on her cousin's face. "I suppose we'll have to wait for the doctor to find out," she said as dramatically as she could.

"To find out what?" Agatha approached them, still pulling off her riding gloves.

Simone winked. "Why, if we're all about to die, of course!"

Jaime scowled at her and turned to his sisters. "The bitch is dying of consumption."

Charlotte screamed. Though if it was due to Jaime's proclamation or not, Simone neither knew nor cared. As soon as the words left Jaime's mouth, she launched herself at him and knocked him down, the pair tumbling down the last few steps. She could not have care less for Charlotte's continued shrieking or Agatha's cry of "You wicked  _animal_!" She sat on top of him, determined to hit every inch of him.

"You foul bastard!" she shrieked, as he reached up to fight back, yanking hard on her pinned-up curls. "You pig! You dog! You dare call her bitch! You dare!"

"That is  _enough_!"

A strong hand took her raised wrist and pulled her from Jaime. Simone tumbled backwards in a blur of stockings and petticoats.

"You disgust me!" Simone continued to shout, pushing herself up. "You…you're repellant!"

"Si _mone!_ " Mathieu's face was bright red as he stared at her, enough to startle anyone into silence, but Simone stood up, flipping her hair over her head.

"Did hear him?" she shrieked, pointing a shaking figure at Jaime as he rose, his hand cupping his face. "Did you hear what he said?"

"I said that is enough!" Simone fell silent at the look on her father's face. She was unaccustomed to being yelled at so terribly. "Simone, I will not tolerate violence of any kind, whether or not the subject deserved it."

"He did—"

"Then all the more reason to be the better person." Jaw clenched, Mathieu turned from his daughter to Jaime. "Further," he said coolly, "I will not tolerate vulgarity of any kind against my children."

"Your child," Jaime snarled, incredulous. His hands were now at his side and blood was dripping from his nose. "Is that what she is?"

"I will  _not_ ," Mathieu said, as though Jaime had said nothing at all, "tolerate any such cruelty against my children, whether she be my child by birth or because I deem her so. You will apologize."

"She broke my nose!"

Simone laughed. "Then you ought to keep it out of everyone else's business."

"I said  _enough_. Will you not listen?" Everyone fell silent save for Charlotte's sniffling. "Charlotte, child, stop your crying. Jaime's nose will be just fine and Mademoiselle Sparrow is not dying from consumption or anything else. She's simply sick and, until I say otherwise, is to be left alone by everyone except myself, Marguerite, and the doctor when he arrives. I will be in my study. Have someone fetch me when the doctor arrives."

With that, he turned to go. Simone shot one last scathing glance at her cousins before walking after him. She followed him into his study and slammed the door. Mathieu sat down behind his desk as Simone rounded on him

"Did she tell you what happen?" she hissed, slamming her hands on the table.

"She was asleep when I got upstairs."

"Jaime pulled her into the water. She can't swim and he just stood there.  _Laughing_."

Her father stared at her. "Is that really what happened?"

Simone nodded.

"Then I will make it clear to him, since it he has not already figured it out; any insult against that girl is an insult against this family and will not be tolerated."

Simone scoffed. "You think that will work?"

"I do hope so. Tell me, how did the girls react?"

"Agatha seemed to think it terribly funny. Charlotte was surprised."

"A strange child, that Charlotte."

"How so?"

"I can't understand her. I could never tell you what she's thinking. Even you," he laughed, "even Sparrow. You both think you're so secretive. But I can tell you with confidence that neither of you have ever lied to me without my knowing."

Simone snorted and sat on the corner of her father's desk. "Now, that I don't believe for a second."

"It's true. But Charlotte…that girl's mind is a mystery to me." He sighed and rose from his desk. His own face unreadable, he walked to the window and peered out. "Was she well this morning?" he asked. "Before Jaime pulled her in, was there anything wrong with her?"

"She was exhausted," Simone said, watching the way her father's back hunched as he stared out the window. She had never noticed how old he had grown. She walked over to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. "That's not unusual for her though. I don't think she sleeps most nights. But we were sitting around and she was leaning against me and then she just fell asleep. Slept for ages." She paused and found her father's hand. "I heard Agatha as we rode back. She said we ought to commit Sparrow to an asylum. That she's not right. You don't think she'll try anything, do you, Papa? I wouldn't put it past Jaime to try."

Mathieu turned and kissed the top of his daughter's head. "We needn't worry about that, my dear. Come in!" he called, as someone knocked on the door.

One of the housemaids stepped in. "I'm sorry, monsieur," she said softly. "The doctor is here."

Mathieu nodded. "Thank you, Sophie. I will attempt to send down Marguerite. Should I not, see that Monsieur Jaime stays downstairs. Come, Simone."

Silently, Simone obeyed, certain that a single word could land her with the duty of minding her cousins. She could hear Jaime's voice carry through the hall.

"I scarcely know the child, monsieur. My sisters and I only arrived yesterday, you see. But she's a troubled girl, monsieur. Troubled, indeed."

"It might be consumption," came Agatha's voice, trembling with both rage and terror. "Should we leave?"

"At the very least," Jaime continued, "the poor creature is insane."

"Salomon!" Mathieu called out, preventing Jaime from speaking further. The doctor, a short, fat man with rosy cheeks, peered around Jaime.

"Monsieur Enjolras!" He held out his hand. "Your nephew here has been filling me in on the health of your mysterious new girl." He took Simone's hand and kissed it lightly. "Simone, my girl. Healthy as ever, I presume?"

Simone smiled. "Quite so. Though do be wary of my cousin. He knows little of medicine — or anything else for that matter."

Mathieu cleared his throat, but said nothing. The doctor laughed.

"Well, at the very least, we won't fear death before he's at are door, shall we? I wouldn't think you all have much to be afraid of. Shall I see to the girl?"

Mathieu nodded. "Of course." He gestured for the doctor to join him up the stairs.

Simone followed, but not before Jaime grabbed her elbow.

"Salomon," he hissed. "Surely not a Jew?"

Simone wretched her arm away. "He's been here since before my mother died, gotten Papa and myself through everything that's come along. I've never asked how he prays, but surely whatever god he prays to has listened to him and seen us all through."

With that, she turned and followed up the stairs. Marguerite was standing outside of Sparrow's door.

"She's still sleeping."

Simone grabbed the doctor's arm. "It's not odd, doctor. She's always a tired girl. And I think she stayed up all night last night."

"She was ill then?"

"No, I just don't think she likes to sleep very much."

The doctor looked between Simone and Mathieu before gesturing for Marguerite to shut the door. "Before we go in," he said, "is there anything I should know about this girl?"

For a moment, everyone was quiet. It was Mathieu who broke the silence.

"In all honesty, Salomon, I could not tell you. If we were honest, we know not even her name, much less her health. I can only tell you that, if she has received any medical care in her life before, it has been poor and infrequent."

The doctor nodded. "Where was she before here?"

"The street, we suppose."

"Doctor," Simone said, before he could respond. "Madame Salomon, she spends her days trying to save girls she finds on the street, doesn't she? Bringing them food and clothes?"

Doctor Salomon nodded. "If I may ask, how did you find her? Or she find you?"

To that, Simone was unsure how to respond.

"A long story, Salomon," Mathieu said. "But surely by the grace of God."

"Then let us go examine the child."

Sparrow did look very much like a child indeed when they entered the room. Despite the sweltering summer heat, she was wrapped in enough blankets to shield her from the most vicious of winters. Marguerite, not as immune to the heat as her charge, had opened the window. Sparrow was, it seemed, too deeply asleep to notice. The doctor went to her bedside and bent over her, pressing his hand to her brow.

"Has she always been so pale?" he asked, turning to Mathieu, who nodded. "And so small?"

Simone let out a little laugh. "She was worse when she got here, actually. If anything, she's getting fat!"

At this, the doctor laughed. "That is good, very good. Tell me, she was fine yesterday?"

"Yes."

"No coughing, no anything? Just the fever?"

"As far as I'm aware, yes."

"Then I think it would be quite premature to give the girl a death sentence. Consumption, ha! Your nephew has an imagination, Monsieur Enjolras."

"Yes, that or my daughter takes great pleasure in the distress of her cousins."

From the bed, Sparrow sighed.

"Who are you?" came her voice from within the blankets.

"She wakes!" Salomon laughed. "Good-day, mademoiselle. Are you still so cold?"

"Simone!"

Simone swallowed a laugh and went to sit beside Sparrow. "I'm right here. He's just the doctor."

"Oh." Sparrow rolled to rest her head against Simone's hip. "Chilled," she said softly.

"I'm sorry?"

"He asked if I was cold." She tried to sit up, leaning heavily on Simone, and held out her hand. "I've been colder."

The doctor took her hand, his eyes widening slightly as his finger ran over the marred skin of her palm. "What is this?" he asked softly, stooping to take a closer look. "This is a gunshot wound, my girl. I don't see many of these around here. Why, this must be close to a year old now! Whatever happened? How…" he trailed off, looking from Sparrow to Simone to Mathieu and back to Sparrow. He then gave her a sad smile, one filled with pity that, for the first time, she did not resent. He lay Sparrow's hand on the bed beside her. "You came here from Paris in December?"

There was a moment's pause before Sparrow whispered, "Yes, monsieur."

"What is there you were seen by another doctor, my dear?"

"Yes."

"And it was only your hand?"

Sparrow looked to Simone, with whom she shared more than anyone. And though Marguerite had never said anything, Sparrow knew that Marguerite had seen all her injuries. But Mathieu, Sparrow was certain he knew nothing beyond her hand. Simone kissed her brow and began to undo the buttons of Sebastien's nightshirt, opening it just enough to show the top of the scared skin, stretching from her collar bone down over her breast.

"I was trying to help," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. She had never told Simone how she got shot before. She had never even told Sebastien. "I was trying to help, so I grabbed the barrel. It didn't matter if I died. They were all more helpful, more important than I. So I grabbed the barrel and moved it away."

"Lean forward," the doctor said. His voice was stern, but not unkind. "Put your head to your knees."

Trembling, Sparrow obeyed.

"Simone, my dear, if you could show me her back."

Sparrow bit her lip to keep from crying. Surely the nakedness of her back was not humiliation enough to make her cry.

"It went clean through you. It's a miracle it didn't kill you. In through your hand, out through your back. Not even an inch and none of us would ever know you."

Simone covered her back again and Sparrow sat up. The doctor smiled at her.

"I can only imagine how hard the last year has been for you, for all of you. Truly, Madame Salomon still keeps your family in her prayers. Too many good men were lost. Too many good boys." He turned to Mathieu. "I think it is only a fever, Monsieur Enjolras. Not consumption, not related to her injuries. She is a child and children, as we both know, get sick. It's not even worth the effort of bleeding her. Stay abed for a while and I think all will be fine."

Simone stood and whispered something in the doctor's ear. He laughed and said, "Perhaps, for the next two weeks, you should refrain from paying any calls."

Mathieu nodded. "I'll show you out."

After they left, Simone returned to Sparrow's side. "Thank me," she said.

"What did you say to him?"

"Trust me. Thank me."

"Thank you?"

"Good girl."

Sparrow rolled over. "Marguerite, what did she say?"

Marguerite smiled, but only said, "Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

"Tell him I'm sorry, won't you?"

Simone snorted and pulled Sparrow's blanket up to her neck. "Who and why?"

"Just tell him how sorry I am?" Sparrow shut her eyes.

Simone looked at Marguerite, but the older woman only shrugged. "Alright, Sparrow," Simone said with a sigh and decided to take a guess. "You sleep, I'll take care of everything. Will Sebastien know why you're sorry?"

"I hope so."

Simone laughed. "Do you understand her Marguerite? Ever and at all?"

Sparrow hand shot from the blanket and flicked Simone on the side of her head. Still laughing, Simone kicked off her boots and curled up beside Sparrow. "I love you a lot, you know?"

Sparrow nodded against her side. "Love you, too," she said, and promptly fell asleep.

The rest of the week passed in tedium. Fortunately, it seemed as though Doctor Salomon had failed to mention that Sparrow was safe to be around and, as May faded into June, Sparrow found herself isolated from Jaime, Agatha, and Charlotte. Though Marguerite spent most of the morning with her and Simone flitted in and out in the afternoons and evenings, Sparrow was bored. She spent most of her time writing in the journal Sebastien had given her and wishing that he could come sit with her, if only for a couple of minutes.

That first night, she woke up crying from a dream she could not remember. She wondered if Sebastien was sleeping through the night. She wondered if her dream was one they had shared.

The second night, she woke sweating, no longer shivering in the summer heat. She threw open her window to breathe in the night air. It was raining and felt like the heavens were kissing her face.

The third night, she realized that, if she lay very quiet, long after everyone else had gone to sleep, she could hear Sebastien walking upstairs, directly above her. She stifled a gasp and stood in her bed, her head spinning. She didn't care, she needed to respond. If she fainted, she would only fall back into her bed. But she was too short to hit the ceiling above her and was forced to give up.

The fourth night, she made sure Simone brought her a broom before going to bed. The older girl had looked at her as though she was crazy, but Sparrow didn't mind. When the house fell silent, the ceiling over her head began to creak. Slowly, she rose and grabbed the broom from beside her bed and raised it over her head.

_Tap, tap_.

The walking stopped.

Against, Sparrow raised the broom.

_Tap, tap, tap._

From above her came the muffled, but unmistakable sound of Sebastien's laugh. It stopped as soon as it began and, for a moment, she worried that she would not have been the only one to hear it. But she smiled. She could only imagine the look on Charlotte's face when she was told that the Enjolras home was haunted.

The foot steps began again, walking pointedly away from her. She pouted, wondering why he'd walk away, when she saw what was unmistakably an old shoe fall past her window. Of course! She hadn't even noticed before how the attic's window lined up perfectly with her own. Heart racing, she climbed down from her bed, careful not to make too much noise, and when over to her open window.

"Hello?" she hissed out into the night.

"Aren't you ill, little bird? Go to sleep."

She smiled. "I'm bored. I miss you."

"I miss you, too."

"Can't you come down?"

"Another day, little bird. Another day."

"Will you keep pacing?"

Despite its low volume, Sebastien laugh seemed to consume the night air, engulfing the world around her. "Why?"

"I like knowing you're here."

"If you promise to go straight to bed, I'll keep walking."

"I promise!"

"Goodnight, little bird."

"Goodnight!"

She slept soundly that night. The next morning, when she asked Simone if she had heard anything the night before, the older girl only raised an eyebrow.

"Should I have?"

"No."

Simone crossed her arms. "What did you do?"

Sparrow smiled sheepishly and patted the bed beside her. Simone sat down. "Did you know Sebastien's window is directly above mine?"

Simone gasped. "If you tell me he scaled that wall, I'll kill him!"

"Oh, no! I only said goodnight."

Simone laughed. "You two will never make sense to me."

Sparrow leaned against her shoulder. "Do you think your father will let me come downstairs today?"

"I wouldn't ask."

"Why not?" She pouted. Exhaustion and boredom had made her irritable.

"Trust me. Don't ask. But, if you do, ask Marguerite and ask her loudly."

Confused, Sparrow obeyed when Marguerite came in not a half hour after Simone left. To her surprise, Marguerite responded equally loudly.

"No, you may not! How nasty and rude of you for asking! Should your selfishness get the whole household sick?"

Sparrow bit her lip to keep from crying. Marguerite had never yelled at her before. As far as she knew, Marguerite never yelled at anyone.

"Why?"

"Because ladies do as they're told."

It had been years since she had been treated like such a child. Unable to help herself, she let herself fall back into her pillows and cry. The door clicked shut and not a moment later were Marguerite's arms tight around her.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry," she whispered into Sparrow's ear, stroking her hair. "Shh, shh, now stop your crying. You're not selfish, Sparrow, never selfish. Look at me, look at me, love."

Sparrow obeyed.

"You need to be nasty these next few days, alright? And I'm gonna be nasty back to you."

Sparrow tilted her head. Surely her sickness had not left her so confused. "Why?"

"Because Jaime's been following me about trying to get a word with you. And we've told them you're just too sick. And you desperately want to join them, but doctor's orders: you can't go to the dinner party at the LaRoux's this week."

"I'm not scared of Antoine LaRoux."

"No, but I am certain that you don't want to go to his dinner party. But ask me again tomorrow. And the next day. And be naughty if you must. I'll let you know if anyone is listening in." She kissed the top of Sparrow's head. "I am sorry, my dear. Simone was supposed to let you know. It wasn't until it was too late I realized she hadn't."

Sparrow wrapped her arms tightly around Marguerite. "It's alright."

But she was still confused. The next several days passed in the same manner. Sparrow spent most of the days alone, writing, pausing to feign yelling matches with Marguerite and Simone, and once, even Mathieu. The yelling provided little relief for her monotonous days, however, and she was growing restless. Even the sound of Sebastien pacing at night could not calm her.

Finally, after several days' time, something odd happened. After lunch, Simone snuck into her room, but barely crossed through the door.

"Get dressed!" she hissed, and then departed.

Although she was only more confused, Sparrow obeyed, excited at the prospect of leaving her room. She was trying to lace herself into her corset she Marguerite enter, smiling. Silently, she handed Sparrow a small glass box before walking back to the door and slamming it shut.

"What in God's good name are you doing?" she shouted, turning back around. But she smiled.

Sparrow crossed her arms over her chest. "Please? I just want to go out for a while!"

"And spoil the LaRoux's dinner? I think not!" Still smiling, Marguerite dropped her voice. "Throw it."

"What?"

"Throw it against the wall. Scream. Cry, if you will."

Sparrow clutched the box. "Tell me what's going on."

"Do it."

But Sparrow was so confused. She knew no one was cross with her. She knew the yelling was fake. But she didn't know why. She could handle Antoine LaRoux. She stamped her foot. And then smiled.

"It's not fair!" she shrieked, and threw the box at the opposite wall. She wasn't expected it to shatter so loudly.

The door swung open as Marguerite shouted, "Sparrow!"

"Enough."

Sparrow gasped and grabbed a blanket from the bed, wrapping it around herself.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as Mathieu walked into the room.

"Marguerite," he said softly. "I believe Simone is at risk for burning off her hair. Could you see to her?"

"Of course, monsieur."

Once they were alone, Mathieu gestured for Sparrow to sit on the bed. He stood before her, a large box under one arm.

"You look distressed, my dear."

"I'm confused." She pulled the blanket more tightly around herself. "I feel fine, I've felt fine for days. And I can't even go downstairs. And I was going to try so hard to be good. To not give them cause to take Simone away. And now they must think me mad."

To her surprise, Mathieu laughed. "Don't let me nieces and nephew worry you, Sparrow. They think you're a bit mad, yes. Mostly, however, they think you are a child. I know they are nothing you can't handle."

"Then why lock me away?"

"A surprise," Mathieu said, and set the box on her bed. "Go on, open it."

Hesitantly, Sparrow obeyed. "Oh!" she could not help but exclaim. For from the box she pulled an evening gown of dark blue satin, complete with white gloves. Under it, she saw as she lay the gown over her bed, matching shoes. "But I'm not going to the dinner party. You said, you all said —"

"Do you know what day it is today, my dear?"

Sparrow shook her head, running her fingers over the dress. She was certain she had never touched anything so fine in her life. "I can't," she said hoarsely. "I can't take this."

"A year ago this morning," said Mathieu, ignoring her, "you defeated all odds and, despite having taken a bullet to the chest, you pulled a boy you did not know from the battlefield, a boy bleeding out from bullet wounds. You brought him to safety and you brought him back to his family, your family. A year ago today, you refused to die. And I think there are better ways to celebrate this anniversary of, what shall we call it? Your rebirth, than to go to a dinner party filled with people you hate."

Sparrow wiped her cheek. "What about the rest?"

"Simone will accompany her cousins, a sacrifice she was more than willing to make. Her own idea, actually. I have procured a box at the theater tonight. Completely private. You are not the only one being driven mad by your prison. So Sebastien wishes to take you to the theater tonight."

In a flurry of tears, Sparrow threw herself at him, all modesty forgotten.

"There, there, girl," said Mathieu with a laugh. "There is nothing at all to cry about."

But she continued to sob. "I'll repay you! I swear it! One day, I'll repay you for all you've done for me."

Mathieu laughed. "Do you love me?"

"Yes!"

"Then that, my girl, is repayment enough." He stepped back, holding her at an arm's length. "I'll have Marguerite return to help you dress. Dry your eyes. Tonight's a celebration."

An hour later, as she stared at her mirror, Sparrow could not recognize herself. Her hair was done up in elaborate curls and braids atop her head. Never before had she put rouge upon her cheeks. And she was certain her corset had never been laced so tightly. She nearly regretted the little bit of supper she had eaten. But the girl in the mirror made the discomfort worth it.

"I feel like a queen," she told her reflection.

Margurite laughed and tied a borrowed necklace of Simone's around her neck. "You look it."

"How long have you known?"

"Since the doctor came. It was lucky you got sick. Apparently your Sebastien has been planning this for months. It's why he was so cross when Monsieur Jaime wrote."

_Your Sebastien_. Sparrow grinned and said nothing. She smiled at her reflection. "Do you know what we're seeing?"

"Haven't a clue. I don't even think Sebastien knows. He just wanted to take you. You've never been before?"

Sparrow shook her head. "Not properly. My brother used to get me into the galleries sometimes, but it smelled nasty. We couldn't see anything. We could barely hear. But it was so lovely to be in the same place as all the actors and all the ladies in their nice things. One dropped a glove once. I almost took it for Maman, but—" She stopped suddenly. She hadn't meant to say so much out loud. "I'm not a thief," she said firmly.

To her surprise, Marguerite smiled. "No, I don't believe you are."

After that, Sparrow remained quiet, near shaking with excitement. Even her voice trembled when she finally spoke to call "Goodbye" to Simone. She hoped Jaime would just see it as exhaustion. She could barely contain her excitement when Mathieu came in to lead her downstairs, telling her Sebastien was waiting in the coach. She bounced on the balls of her feet. She had never truly seen Sebastien dressed up — he never left the estate, there had never been a reason.

But if she thought she had found him handsome when she sat beside him with a soft "Hello," it was nothing compared to the moment the horse began moving and they moved away from the house. The smile that broke across his face when the wind came in the window, growing and growing as the lights from the town grew brighter…that look of pure serenity made every hardship Sparrow had ever experienced suddenly melt away. Perhaps it wasn't coldness that had given him the title statue, but rather his beauty. Wordlessly, she grabbed his arm as if to ask if he had missed the world. And magically, he nodded.

When the coach stopped, a young man Sparrow recognized from Mathieu's home helped her down and led them to a door at the side of the theater and up an empty stair case. And then they were there, in a box overlooking the stage, a box just for the two of them. Trembling, she walked to the edge and leaned over. Immediately, Sebastien grabbed her arm and pulled.

"Sit down, little bird."

She turned and smiled. "Why? It hasn't started yet. And it's dark enough that no one will recognize me and wonder why I'm here."

"Please?"

She looked quizzically at him. If she could have found an explanation, she would have named the look in his eyes fear. And then it dawned on her. She peered back over the edge. "I think it would be terribly painful to fall from this height. Survivable, but painful."

"Quite so," said Sebastien softly, gesturing for Sparrow to take her seat. But she only stared at him.

"Do you have such little faith in me?"

His eyebrows arched up in the middle, his lips parted slightly. This comment, perhaps more than anything she had ever said, seemed to break him. "I have more faith in you than anything."

"Then trust in my will to live."

He held out his hand. "Don't fly away, little bird."

He smiled and she could not help but smile back. "What's a flightless bird?

"I don't know, I've never studied birds. Chickens, I suppose."

"Then I will be your chicken."

He laughed as she took his hand and sat down. He was silly to be so fearful, she told herself. So very silly. She wasn't afraid of living when they were together. With him in her life, she knew she was invincible. Very nearly invincible. She leaned against his shoulder.

"Will it start soon?" she asked.

"Be patient."

She sighed and straightened her back, silently damning her corset. And then the buzz of voices stopped and the theater fell silent.

Looking back, she could not tell you the name of the play they saw that night. She could not name a single character. Perhaps she could remember that it was a tragedy, that someone fell in love and that someone died, but she could not tell you the story.

But she could tell you every emotion she felt that night, the various speeds with which blood coursed through her veins and voices rose and fell in the theater. She could tell you she laughed and gasped and, at one point, even cried. She could tell you that in the theater, falsehoods became truths and her world, both old and new, melted into nothingness.

Sebastien was no more able to recall the title of the play than Sparrow. He could not have told you the quality of the acting, or even the language of the production.

What he could tell you was how Sparrow seemed to rise in her seat when an actor's voice rose. He could tell you how after the first ten minutes, she no longer looked around and listened to gauge everyone else's reaction before laughing or gasping herself. And he could tell you that her hand moved to the armrest between them when she began to cry, as though looking for something to hold on to.

"I never…I never…" she whispered as they left, walking out the same way they had come. "It's so different when you can actually see it. I would have never even dreamed of it."

He put his hand at the small of her back — she had slowed and they needed to get home. "I should like to bring you back one day." They stepped into the night air, still warm against their skin.

"Thank you," she said, stepping into the coach. "For bringing me tonight."

Sebastien smiled. "You deserved it."

"Not really," she murmured, her curls bouncing as they began to make their way home. "I wasn't trying to be a hero or anything. I was just standing there and you grabbed me and wouldn't let go."

"And yet I'm still alive, regardless of your intentions."

"Damn." They both laughed. Sparrow leaded against her seat back. "I never thanked you for the journal."

"It was nothing. You gave me the idea."

"Still, I never thought I'd write, but I truly love it."

"So you write in it?"

"Always."

He smiled at her. "I'm glad to hear that, little bird. Very glad."

When they arrived home, she bid him goodnight outside. They had been longer than expected and the others could be home at any moment. Sebastien would have to go in through the back. It took all her strength to relinquish him from her embrace. She too should get to bed before Simone and the others returned. Should she get caught and somehow separated from Sebastien — that was a fear that she could not bear to think. So she said goodnight to Sebastien at the coach and watched it carry him around back. She hurried into the house and up the stairs. Marguerite met her in the hall.

"Was it all you expected?"

"It was amazing."

"Did Sebastien enjoy it?"

"I think so."

Marguerite smiled. "I'm very happy to hear that, my dear. Come, now. Let's get you to bed."

She slept soundly that night and woke to the morning air blowing in through her open window. For the first time since she had gotten sick, she was glad to have an excuse to stay in bed all day. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, one leg hanging over the side of her bed. She began to hum softly to herself. There was a knock on the door.

She sat up, pulling her bare leg back under the blanket. She had hoped Simone would allow her to sleep in. Then again, Simone would never bother knocking.

"Yes?"

The door opened and, to Sparrow's surprise, Charlotte came in. She stood awkwardly in the doorway, swaying back and forth as though she couldn't decide whether or not it was worth her health to enter the sick girl's room.

"You look well, Mademoiselle Sparrow," she muttered at last. "You've got quite some color in your cheeks."

Sparrow cursed internally. She had been too tired to wash her face off last night and was certain there was still rouge on her cheeks.

"Can I help you?"

Charlotte crossed her arms. "I only want to come in for a moment."

Sparrow stared for a moment. "Of course," she said, and Charlotte stepped in, shutting the door behind her.

"We've missed you since we've been here."

Sparrow thought of asking if Charlotte had come in for a French lesson, but thought better of it. "I've been ill."

Charlotte walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. "Yes, we're quite sorry for it." She sighed and looked down at her skirt. "You're quite interesting, you know."

Sparrow hugged herself. "Am I?"

"Mmm, quite. What happened to your hand?"

Sparrow's breath caught in her throat. "My hand?"

"Yes," Charlotte said, leaning over and grabbing Sparrow's wrist. She smiled, an odd, far-off look gracing her face as she ran her fingers of the pink and twisted skin of Sparrow's hand. "Won't you tell me?"

"I…I fell."

Charlotte laughed. "Onto a knife, Mademoiselle Sparrow?"

"No," said Sparrow slowly. "No. I grabbed a fence post to break my fall." If it had sounded stupid in her head, it sounded a thousand times worse out loud.

"A fence post? How tragic. Was it before you came here?"

"Yes."

Charlotte  _tsk_ ed. "Who are you, Mademoiselle Sparrow?"

"I think you've just answered it for yourself."

"Hm. Emmanuelle who hates Emmanuelle. Emmanuelle who's become a bird." She laughed. Sparrow desperately wished she would release her hand. "Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle. Emmanuelle what?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What's your surname, Emmanuelle?"

Sparrow stared at her lap, praying her fear would be mistaken for sadness or anything else. A stupid little prayer. Silently, she searched her mind for any surname she had ever heard Sebastien or Simone mention. What had he called her? Hadn't he thought her to be someone that first day she met him? The drunk man, the one who had stared at her even in death? Hadn't Sebastien thought her his sister?

"Grantaire," she said hurriedly. "Emmanuelle Grantaire."

"Emmanuelle Grantaire," murmured Charlotte, and Sparrow was certain she did not believe her. "It does sound lovely. But, pray tell me: who  _are_ you?"

And she leaned in close, releasing Sparrow's hand and reaching out, pulling down her nightgown, down over her breast. Sparrow froze.

Charlotte tilted her head to the side. "Hm. I saw it when you got out of the water. Jaime was behind you and Agatha doesn't notice anything. But no one notices me, so I saw it and no one knew." She laughed. "Agatha suggested it months ago. That perhaps you knew Sebastien." She looked at Sparrow, expecting a reaction.

"Sebastien," Sparrow said softly. "That's Simone's other cousin, the one who died?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "No one notices me. I could stand in the room as you and Simone discuss your deepest, most depraved secrets. And you would never know. Why, I came right upstairs with the doctor, stood outside your door. And no one knew. So you're some traitorous little thing who thought she could fight with the men and got herself shot." Charlotte snorted. "I'd say it would be just Sebastien's type, but I knew him. He despised everything and everyone and couldn't woo a girl to save him life. Did he pay you? To make him think he was a noble man before he got himself killed? And did you decide it wasn't enough, that you had to come here and get a little more?"

Sparrow was shaking. Whether it was with rage or terror or mortification, she could not say. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Did Sebastien pay you to screw him or did you think you could win his affection? Does Simone know? Does Mathieu? Good God, Jaime said you looked like some little slut. No, Mathieu doesn't know, does he? He can't. He has a letter sitting on his desk, you know? Have you read it? Can you even read?" She didn't give enough time for Sparrow to respond before continuing. "He wants to know if he can adopt a child, even if there's no proof that her own parents are dead. Even if he doesn't know her name. He's a bit eccentric, my uncle, but I don't think he'd even adopt some whore. So he doesn't know. Is Simone covering for you? Or did you tell them both how terribly in love you were with Sebastien?" She laughed again. "Poor Sparrow. Poor Emmanuelle. Poor whoever you want to be. Did it work, saying he loved you? Did they believe you? It's quite sad, isn't it? And it'll only get worse. Who will love the poor Parisian whore?"

Charlotte stopped speaking and stared at Sparrow. Perhaps she expected her to blush and make to cover herself. To scream or to cry or to insist she was lying. Perhaps she even expected Sparrow to attack her.

But Sparrow leaned forward and pushed past Charlotte, crawling to the end of her bed. She pointed across the room at her vanity.

"What?"

"Do you see that, Charlotte?"

In the reflection from her mirror, she could see Charlotte looking quizzically at her.

"It's a mirror."

"Clever, aren't you? Do you see her?"

"I see you."

"Yes. She will love me." She smiled at her reflection. "She will love the poor Parisian whore."

Suddenly, Charlotte jumped up and grabbed Sparrow's wrist, dragging her to the door, throwing it open.

"Jaime! Agatha!"

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and Agatha, Jaime, and Mathieu rounded the corner, fully dressed. Simone's door opened as she stepped into the hall, still in her nightgown. She gasped and pulled off her dressing gown, darting forward and covering Sparrow.

"Charlotte! What in God's name are you doing?"

But Charlotte ignored her and turned to her siblings. "I was right, you know. To say that's all she was when Jaime said she was only as pretty as a whore? Did you know that, Uncle? Did you ever even think she was just Sebastien's whore?"

When Mathieu responded, Sparrow leaned against Simone and smiled, for he was of that rare breed of human that can appear more terrible and dangerous calm and smiling than another man could appear screaming and belligerent.

"You're quite mistaken, my dear, in thinking that you are the first to suggest that situation to me. And I know it to be false."

"What! You believe her little story of having fallen onto a fence post?"

Sparrow expected Mathieu to look startled, but he appeared unfazed by Charlotte's remark. "Of course, I do."

"It was her fiancé." Everyone turned — no one had noticed Marguerite. She gave Sparrow a solemn nod. "Threw her down on it. Come now, Miss Charlotte. No girl can be as scared as our Sparrow is unless someone she knew tried to kill her."

Sparrow leaned against Simone, heart pounding. She wondered if Marguerite had been planning this all along, if every time she silently listened to little snippets of Sparrow's past, she weaved them together, not as Sparrow was sure Simone did — to try and discover who she was — but to devise her own story, true or not. To prepare for the day she may need to vouch for the girl without the slightest hint of hesitation in her voice. Marguerite continued:

"Can you imagine it? And what with her parents dead! Well, your uncle's a good man, the best. Knew her father, heard the scandal. For Christ's sake, her fiancé tried to kill her. She couldn't stay in the city any longer."

When she stopped speaking, everyone was silent, staring first at Marguerite and then at Sparrow. She felt as though she should say something, as if her own words world validate Marguerite's story or, at the very least, acknowledge how thankful she was. But she couldn't find the words and buried her face in Simone's shoulder. Simone tightened her grip around her and kissed her head.

"I hope your happy, Charlotte," Simone said. "Bringing all this back up when she's just trying to piece her life back together."

Charlotte glared at them, red in the face. "I…she all but admitted it! She…Oh, you little bitch, don't you see how she dotes on you? It's disgraceful! Why, Simone, she's after your inheritance! And you!" She rounded on her uncle. "You're gullible enough to adopt her! You'd dare do that to your own daughter!"

"Don't you dare make this about me!" Simone shouted.

"Don't you care at all?"

Simone threw back her head and laughed. "As if you give a damn about me or my inheritance!"

Agatha stepped forward, speaking for the first time that morning. "How dare you speak to her like that!"

Simone was about to respond, but Mathieu had stepped forward, slamming Simone's door shut and gaining everyone's attention. "I expect you all to be quiet now."

But Sparrow could not keep herself from speaking. "Do you really want to adopt me?" She looked directly at him, pointedly ignoring everyone else.

"What you want is, I believe, far more important than what I want. But I assure you that the possibility was looked into not only with Simone's knowledge, but, in fact, at her insistence. She's wanted a sister since she was a child and you have only reminded her of how desperately she wants one." He smiled at Sparrow who, unsure if there existed words that could form an adequate response, held Simone tightly. He then turned to his nephew.

"You and your sisters have been in my home for scarcely more than a week. And your grandmother, my mother-in-law, assured me that you would be wonderful and gracious guests and that you, Jaime, were nothing short of a perfect chaperone for your sisters. And, yet, since you've been here, Mademoiselle Sparrow has been insulted, half-drowned, and now pulled half-naked from her bed to be accused of prostitution and fraud before strangers. So I must ask that you and your sisters return to your rooms and begin packing. I will send for you when Sparrow and Simone are done with breakfast so that you all may eat. You are welcome to the sitting room, but the library and my office shall be strictly out of bounds. I will see to your food for the rest of today and breakfast tomorrow. Then, I must insist that you either find an inn in town, or continue on in your travels. For after breakfast tomorrow, you will no longer be welcome in this house. Between now and then, any requests you have should be made to a member of the staff or myself. The girls are not to be spoken to." He turned back around. "Sparrow, my dear, we've missed you at the breakfast table. I believe fifteen minutes is enough time for you to dress. Simone, you as well. I expect you both to join me."

He nodded curtly to Jaime and walked downstairs without another word. And then all eyes were back on Sparrow. Though she held her head high, she wrapped Simone's dressing gown closer around herself.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you all," she said before she could stop herself, and walked back into her room, shutting the door behind her. She could hear Simone cackling on the other side.

The rest of the day passed without incident. That night, as Sparrow sat in the chair by her window, diary out and pen in hand, she could not help but realize that tomorrow, she could be with Sebastien freely again. First she smiled. Then she sighed and set down her pen. The door open and Simone came in.

"I'm terribly sorry for all they've put you through, but I'll be damned if I don't admit I'm glad they're going. I miss 'Bastien."

Sparrow nodded, leaning her head against the windowpane. "Yes."

"Aren't you glad to be with him again?"

"Of course."

Simone lay down across the foot of the bed, propping her chin in her hands. "And now you've added to the mystery. Mariana-Emmanuelle-Sparrow. The only consistency is her burning, passionate love for one Sebastien Enjolras and now, after a week's separation, she's indifferent. What happened to poor, aching Sparrow who wanted to be kissed so much it hurt?" She winked.

Sparrow said nothing, merely pulling off one of her slippers and throwing it at Simone's head.

Simone laughed, but then turned solemn. "I'm serious, Sparrow. Tell me what's wrong?"

Sparrow sat quietly for several minutes, staring out the window rather than at Simone. She didn't even turn back when she did begin to speak. "I told him something. Something about me — who I used to be. I wouldn't have, only I didn't have a choice. And I'm scared he'll see me differently now."

"I don't think you have to worry about that."

"No, I do. He said something to me when we were at the theater."

"Will you tell me? I won't think any differently. I swear it."

"I know," said Sparrow, her voice breaking. But now she wasn't surprised to find herself crying. "I, um, when I was about fifteen, I came very close to drowning myself. And when I fell in the water the other day — when Jaime  _pulled_  me in the water, it was the first time I realized that I don't want to die anymore. It was the first time I really understood that I can see a future for myself. And it's not perfect, but it's there. So I told him. And I think Sebastien's scared that I'm lying. I think he's scared I'll try to kill myself one day."

For a moment, Simone said nothing. She smiled sadly, though tears lined her own face, and climbed out of bed, kneeling before Sparrow. "He doesn't think anything different of you, darling. I know him, I can promise it. I know you hate to hear it, but he loves you with everything he has and will give you whatever love you'll accept. And despite your insistence that you can't love him, you allow him to love you an awful lot. Enough that, I think, more than anything in the world, he fears losing you. There are so many things he can protect you from, but you yourself are not one of them. So he'll take some time, because he's Sebastien, to come to terms with the fact that there are things he cannot protect you from. But you have a place, and a future, here. With us." She rested her head on Sparrow's lap, her own voice breaking as she spoke. "Anyway, he knows for a fact that you can never,  _ever_  kill yourself. Never. Because then I'd have to revive you to kill you again myself. Only I don't have the guts for murder, so then you'll just be a lady-Frankenstein and that would be very, very bad."

Sparrow laughed through her tears. "I don't want to die," she said firmly.

"Good. And I believe you. But I also love you, so I'm still sleeping here tonight."

Sparrow laughed again and slid from her chair to sit beside Simone. "Promise me you won't snore."

"I'll do my best."

They slept past breakfast the next morning, through the bitter comments exchanged between Agatha and Mathieu, through Jaime's berating of Charlotte. They slept until the weight of a third person was added to the bed.

For a while, Sebastien just watched them, watched Sparrow. He watched the way her shoulders rolled up to her neck, the way her mouth hung slightly open.

"It's almost perverse," Simone had whispered, startling him, "the way you watch her."

He ignored it. "You slept here all night?"

"She told me everything. You don't think she'd ever try again, do you?"

Sebastien shook his head. Sparrow rolled over, her cheek pressing against his hip. He allowed himself half a second more to silently watch her. Then he asked, "Do you remember the letter I sent you two Christmases ago? About the girl on the bridge."

Simone's eyes widened. "Your 'symbol of the revolution?'"

"She wasn't a symbol. Just a girl who had nothing left to lose." He brushed some hair from her face. "She could have died at the barricade. If she had stayed, if she hadn't moved, she would have bled through her bandages. Or gotten an infection. Or been killed by a soldier confirming that everyone was dead. It would have been too easy to die. I don't think there is anything she won't fight to live."

Simone nodded silently. "You should go," she said at last. "I'll wake her. We'll have breakfast. Things will be as they've always been."

Sebastien rose. "Do you think she knows how strong she is?" He sighed. "When you look at her there, she appears so fragile. Like the Earth's rotations should shatter her. And yet, her world has been shaken and beaten and abused terribly. She should be nothing but dust. And here she stands."

Simone smiled. "A new symbol for a new revolution?"

Sebastien shook his head. "Symbols can be torn down and ripped apart. Symbols can be changed and twisted and manipulated. You've accused me before of idealizing her. And perhaps I do. But I admire her more than anything else in this world. Above all things, I believe in her and that she will persevere."

Simone shook her head. "You sound like a silly romance book."

"I'm no longer certain I should be ashamed of that." He laughed. "I am far more changeable, more breakable than she is. I can only dream of her strength."

"You should tell her, you know. How much you love her. I think you both would be surprised by the outcome."

But Sebastien shook his head. "I think that I should go downstairs. And you should wake Sparrow. And we'll have breakfast. And things will be as they always were."


	17. Transgressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long, long last: Chapter 17  
> Shout out to Mel for being the best beta ever and not making fun of my bowling skills  
> And a massive CONGRATULATIONS to Ceara because you are free! So, in a sense, this chapter isn't like 9ish months late, I was ~totally~ saving it for your graduation.

Sparrow could not have told you what she dreamt about that night, but when she woke the next morning, her throat burned and her eyes stung. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, but it was too long, too spiraled, and too red to be her own. She turned to her side. Simone was curled up next to her, sleeping soundly. Hesitantly, Sparrow reached for her.

"Simone?"

The other girl jumped up. "What?"

"Why are you in here?"

Simone yawned, rubbing her eyes. "Couldn't sleep. Too hot. Came in here to bother you, but you were crying in your sleep." Though she did not say it, Simone's silent "again" was ringing in Sparrow's ear.

"Oh."

Simone pushed her hair out of her face. A breeze came in through the open window, but it did little to comfort either woman. The hot air shifted around the room, but there was no relief.

"I thought they stopped, Sparrow. You told Sebastien they stopped."

Sparrow looked down at her lap, ashamed. "They have. A bit. I normally wake up." She felt like a child—how silly it was to cry over a nightmare. "I guess I knew you were here, though, so I didn't."

It was mostly true. She normally did wake up from her nightmares, from the demons that seemed to exist solely to mock her. Every night, without fail, she put off sleep as long as she could, singing quietly to no one, only to find herself jerking awake sometime later, determined to let nothing get her. She had gotten good at hiding them, though. It had been months since she had found herself so deep in a life that was no longer hers, so trapped in her own Hell that she had remained paralyzed until the soft sound of her own name, of "Sparrow," broke through the barriers.

"It was only a little nightmare, Simone. I'm sure I'm not the only one with unpleasant dreams."

"Sparrow—" but she was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to make sure you were up," came Sebastien's voice from the hall. "It's nearly eleven, Uncle sent me to wake you and Simone."

"She's awake, too." She pulled her knees to her chest. "You may come in, we're both decent."

"I'm never decent," said Simone with a wink as Sebastien came in.

He stared at his cousin. "Did you just wake?"

"I was so peaceful, dreaming of the sea."

"You slept in here?" It was impossible to miss the worry in his voice.

Sparrow's lips parted to speak and immediately shut again. It would not do to have Sebastien learn that her nightmares continued. She roamed the house most nights—she knew he had enough trauma of his own to keep him alert at night. Fortunately, it seemed Simone understood.

"Clearly, dear cousin. It seems I have superb skills of seduction."

Sparrow could sense Sebastien's desire to roll his eyes, even if he outwardly remained poised.

"Ah, I see. Perhaps I should just go back downstairs then and dispose of the letter that arrived from Paris this morning? If you're no longer attached…"

Simone all but flung herself from the bed, nearly tripping in a tangle of legs, sheets, and nightgown, before skidding to the door. "If you're lying, Sebastien Enjolras, I'll scalp you!" And she left.

"A rather violent one, isn't she?"

Sebastien stuck his hands in his pocket and chuckled. "I suppose so." He gave her a weak smile and took another step into her room. "Can you spare a moment?"

Sparrow cocked her head, confused. "Of course."

To her surprise, Sebastien immediately turned to shut the door.

"Are we being secretive now?" she laughed, reaching for her dressing gown.

"Quite." He gestured to the foot of her bed. "May I?" he asked. She nodded and he sat. "Has she warned you of Friday?"

"Only that she intends to stuff herself with anything sweet and that I'll have a terrible time doing up her laces on Saturday."

"Ah. Well, I suppose you'll have it out with her, then, won't you?"

Sparrow grinned. "It's her own birthday, Simone will do as she pleases. No different from any other day of the year, I suppose."

"I must apologize on her behalf, little bird."

"Oh?"

"See, I assumed you knew."

"Now you're teasing me."

"There were two new dresses in her room last night."

"Don't change the subject, Sebastien. For all her snark, Simone is a fool for fashion. Now, tell me what you're hiding."

"One of them was red."

"Oh." In the seven months Sparrow had lived with Simone, she had never once seen her in a red dress. Stocking and shoes, perhaps, but never a dress. She claimed it wasn't her color. "Well, you know she uses me as an excuse to test new styles. And she complains far more about my 'lack' of gowns than she should."

"Have you ever been to a proper party, Sparrow?"

"Don't mock me."

"Simone loves throwing her own birthday parties. Dinner and dancing, _hours_ spent styling her hair. And she couldn't do anything last year."

Sparrow shook her head. "It's Wednesday."

"We can scalp Simone for trying to hide it from you. I'm almost surprised she hasn't made you test hair styles already."

Sparrow leaned forward to slap his arm, only half-jokingly. "Where shall we go? It's already Wednesday—that's not time to plan anything."

"We?"

"Yes, we!"

"Well, I hate parties. And I'm widely believed to be dead."

This time she shoved him with both hands. "Sebastien Enjolras, now is not the time for you to develop a sense of humor!"

"I will stay in the living quarters, completely out of sight. And you will try to not to kill Isabelle LaRoux."

"Sebastien, please be teasing me."

"I'm sorry."

Sparrow turned to look out her window in disbelief. How could an entire party be planned without her noticing? A party so big even Isabelle LaRoux got an invitation, no less! She briefly wondered if it would be acceptable to feign a deadly illness, maybe reignite the rumor she was consumptive. She sighed. What a wonderful friend she was, more willing to fake consumption than to attend her best friend's birthday. She turned back to Sebastien.

"Everyone hates me," she said softly.

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is! I'm the silly little thing who randomly falls into hysterics when she's in public. No one likes me."

"No one knows you."

Sparrow scoffed. "On the contrary, everyone knows me."

"Everyone _thinks_ they know you, little bird. Mademoiselle Sparrow, the new girl living with Mathieu Enjolras and his daughter. A quiet waif of a girl who goes into town to visit the baker's wife rather than anyone of social standing. Once Antoine LaRoux was too forward with her and she cried."

Sparrow bit the inside of her lip. "You needn't be so blunt."

"That's all anyone knows about you. You've avoided every social function since we've been here."

"As have you!"

Sebastien laughed. "I'm afraid I'd cause a bit more of a scandal than you would."

Sparrow sighed and brought her knees up to her chest. "It is her eighteenth birthday."

"Indeed."

"I've never been to a proper party before."

* * *

And thus on Thursday morning, Sparrow found herself leaning against the wall of the Enjolras's seldom-used ballroom, wondering if she could be swallowed by a portrait. She stared at her feet, listening to the echoes of Simone pacing around the room.

"Where is that wretched boy?" she exclaimed for what must have been the seventh time. She turned on her heel and marched to the door, her bellow of "Sebastien!" reverberating throughout the house.

A minute later, Sebastien walked in, stiffer and more poised than Sparrow had seen him in months, since before they left Paris.

"Is this necessary, Mona?" he asked, his voice quiet and reserved.

"Of course! Sparrow, come here!"

Sparrow continued to stare at her feet. The shoes were pretty enough, but her big toe on her left foot felt terrible pinched.

"Sparrow!"

She lift her skirt to her ankles. "Is it possible for my left foot to have grown?"

Simone snorted. "Just come here."

"But I think my right foot has stayed the same."

"For the love of God, Sparrow! It's just us. Or would you rather wait until tomorrow night when Xavier begs a dance with you and you've run out of excuses?"

"You didn't have to invite him," she muttered, still not moving.

"The Girards are a highly respected family. If I only invited people you liked, there'd be no one coming!"

With an overdramatic sigh, Sparrow pushed herself from the wall. "I don't not like Xavier Girard, I just don't see the point in trying to make everyone like _me_."

Simone put her hands on hips, looking to her cousin for assistance, but he, too, seemed preoccupied with his feet. "Don't you love me, Sparrow?"

"Hmph. Far more that you deserve."

"Then you won't be leaving here any time soon?"

"I have yet to plan my escape." She couldn't help but smiled at the genuine joy the lit up Simone's face.

"Then you must allow people to get to know you, if none of you are going anywhere."

"Simone—"

"I get it, Sparrow. Really and truly, I understand. Some days, being alive is easier than others. But on the days you don't despise being alive, isn't it at all worth it to live?"

Sparrow twisted her hands in her skirt, staring at Simone. Truly, it was Sparrow who did not deserve all of Simone's affection and not the other way around. "Surely," she said with a forced chuckle, "there are other ways of living than dancing with Xavier Girard. I'd lose my only suitor and never find another."

Simone grinned and clapped her hands together. "That's why we have Sebastien."

"Who doesn't dance." Both girls turned to him, surprised that he finally found his voice.

"Nonsense," said Simone. "You'll do just fine. Now, bow."

"Are we getting straight to it? Surely, I must put down a name first. Request a dance. A waltz, perhaps?"

"Only a Viennese Waltz. Come, cousin, surely you know my tastes."

To Sparrow's confusion, Sebastien reddened and hid his face by dropping into a low bow. "Mademoiselle?"

"I haven't danced since I was a child," she said softly. "And even then it was to songs so bawdy, I blush to think of them now."

"I won't judge if you won't."

Simone laughed. "Just don't ruin her pretty, mismatched feet!"

By the close of the hour, Sparrow was certain it was not her feet Simone needed to worry about.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, yet again treading on Sebastien's foot.

He hid his pain well in his smile. "It's of little consequence, little bird. I have no one to impress tomorrow."

She only smiled. In fact, she had uttered nothing but apologies since they had begun, instead silently watching the way Sebastien legs pressed against her skirts, gently nudging her own with each step back. For the past hour, she had forgotten the misery of the July heat, and longed for the coolness of outdoors, of her room. Of anywhere. She forced herself to look up at him and he only smiled back, his thumb running along her back. She stepped back, immediately wrapping her arms around herself.

"It's terribly warm."

Simone laughed. "It's July, what do you expect?"

Sparrow shook her head. "I've never done summer with so many layers before."

Sebastien blushed furiously and looked away from her. For a moment, she was almost pleased. Simone seemed to noticed and snorted.

"Well, darling, we thank you very much for tolerating the stays, don't we, 'Bastien?"

Sebastien forced a smile. "I can't say I envy you."

"It'll look nice, though, 'Bastien. Just wait until you see her tomorrow. I've already told Marguerite what we're doing to Sparrow's hair."

Sparrow sighed and turned to Simone. "You think being the birthday girl means you can get away with anything."

Simone only grinned.

* * *

Though Sparrow allowed Marguerite to do up her laces and style her hair, she insisted on putting on the red evening gown herself. Or, rather, had dismissed the older woman at a quarter to four with the promise that she needed less help than Simone would insist upon. At half past four, she was sitting at the foot of her bed, wearing only her underclothes and holding the bedpost, desperately wishing that the window was cool enough the rest her head against. The heat of her room did nothing to quell the nausea building in her stomach. By a quarter to five, she had given up trying to calm herself and, grabbed her dressing gown, tying it around her waist as she made her way to Sebastien's room. His door was partially opened and she stood there in the hall, watching him for just a moment. He was lying on his back, propped up by his pillows. His shirt fell open far further down his chest than she had seen it before and she tried to ignore the blush rising in her cheeks. One leg was stretched out before him and the other bent at the knee, the book that had him so enraptured propped against it. She watched as a smirked danced upon his lips and wondered what on earth he could be reading.

"You're not as sneaky as you think you are, little bird."

She let out a breathy laugh. "I'm out of practice," she said.

He looked up at her and she suddenly wished she had fully dressed before coming in.

"You frighten me," she said without thinking and immediately regretted it.

Sebastien looked away, he cheeks flush. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, no! Not you, that's not what I…I only meant—" she brought her hands to her cheeks. They burned against her palms. "Only, have you ever had someone look at you and suddenly you're worried that they know everything about you, even the things you think you'd die if they knew?"

He looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite understand and nodded. "All too often."

She nodded back and wondered if he was as foolishly dependent on her to get from day to day as she was on him. Aloud, she said, "Promise you'll never hate me." It was an oath she had easily coaxed from him more than once, but to hear him say the words was a thing she would never tire of.

"I will never hate you, little bird."

"I do try to believe you."

"I know." He smiled softly, sadly almost. "Is that what frightens you about tonight? Not that they might hate you, but that I will?"

Sparrow nodded and added, "Simone, too. And Mathieu."

"Uncle Mathieu."

Again, she nodded slowly. "It feels very nice when I say it, but I feel like a thief."

Sebastien patted the bed beside him. Hesitantly, she moved to sit. "Your worries are silly, little bird. And I know you hate being told you're silly and I'm sorry for saying so. But we will never hate you. I am a hundred percent sure Simone and Uncle will never hate you."

"And you, Sebastien?"

"A hundred thousand."

She leaned to press her forehead against his chin. His face burned nearly as hot as her own.

"You'll be in Uncle's office? All night?"

"If you can learn again to be discreet, I'll even let you visit me."

Sparrow laughed. "Sneaky as a mouse." She could feel him stiffen as her words blew cold air against his neck. "What if I just stayed here?"

"Simone would be quite angry, I think."

"She would get over it." He shifted and wrapped and arm around her. Even in the stifling heat, it was comfortable in his arms.

"That's what you think," he told her, his lips ghosting along her forehead as he spoke.

But neither moved and, for a long while, they sat together in silence, her face against his neck and his arm around her frame. As he rubbed small circles into her arm with his thumb, every nerve of her body simultaneously screamed in protest and melted into him. For a brief moment, the thought crossed her mind that it wasn't fair—why should she be cursed to a life alone, what had she done to deserve it?

But then she remembered and that was that. Sebastien's arm fell away from her and she wondered, for not the first time, if he could read her thoughts.

"You should go," he said, not unkindly. "Get dressed. Imagine someone shows up early and lets themselves explore the estate."

Sparrow snorted and said, with no idea what possessed her to say so, "I'm not sure what would cause more alarm, the supposedly dead nephew or the half-naked ward lying comfortably in his bed."

Sebastien made a slight choking sound and without another word, Sparrow pushed herself off the bed and all but ran from the room. She slammed the door back in her own room and leaned heavily against it.

_You sound like some little whore_ , yelled a voice in her head. _You might as well have removed your robe and lay down like some common slut_.

And then a voice much calmer and softer and much more her own, _And who_ _'_ _s to say you_ _'_ _re not?_

With a small yelp of frustration, she turned and kicked the door. "Get out of my head, Papa," she could barely hear herself whisper.

The door vibrated as someone knocked on the other side.

"Sparrow?" came Simone's voice, her concern thinly veiled. "Are you nearly ready?"

Sparrow pressed hard against the wood of her door.

"Yes," she said. "Only a moment."

It could wait, it would all have to wait. Tonight was Simone's birthday, and tonight, Sparrow would allow herself to be worthy.

* * *

By seven, the public parts of the house had filled with people. And the eyes of every single person seemed to have passed over Sparrow at least twice.

"Why did you put me in red?" she had hissed at Simone as she hurried past her, greeting each of her guests.

Simone only smirked.

It came as a surprise to no one who paid the slightest attention to local gossip when Xavier Girard requested Sparrow's first dance. As they moved throughout the room, hopping and spinning, she made a note to tell Sebastien later how terrible it had been. She avoided Xavier's soft glance, which were trying to catch her own eyes as they maneuvered through the others, and avoided everyone else, craning to see the mysterious little girl who had seemingly showed up and broken up a betrothal that had been supposed for over a decade. Fortunately, she had yet to seen either LaRoux sibling.

She winced inwardly as she felt herself step again upon Xavier's foot. They didn't work together. It had taken her only a matter of seconds to realize that. As soon as he took her waist, his touch so light it almost hovered over her dress, she knew it was wrong and found herself longing for Sebastien's steady grip on her, with his thumb moving back and forth in time with the music, reminding her that all was well.

Xavier made an almost squawk as she stepped again on his foot. He covered it well with a cough.

"It's been a long while since Monsieur has hosted a party here."

Sparrow turned to smile at him, though turned her gaze to his ear as soon as they made eye contact.

"Has it?"

"Mhm. Last year, for Mademoiselle's birthday, I believe she only had a small dinner party. No, that was the year before. Last year, there wasn't anything, I think. Monsieur's nephew was killed in the uprising."

"Ah." She wasn't one for small talk, and certainly not about Sebastien's supposed death.

"Were there parties often?" he asked. "When you lived in Paris?"

She paused a moment before responding. "No," she said softly. "But in the town I grew up in, my parents were always entertaining."

"Where are they now?"

"My mother died a little over a year ago."

His hand stop hovering and found her waist. She supposed it was an attempt at sympathy or comfort. "I'm terribly sorry. And your father?"

_May as well be_ , she wanted to say. _As good as dead_. _Of no importance_. Tears pricked her eyes. _He hates me nearly as much as I hate him_. _He thinks I_ _'_ _m dead and doesn_ _'_ _t care_. She hated herself for caring. For half her life she had known exactly what her father thought of her and she had long since stopped caring.

"Will you excuse me?" she asked, her voice too thick for her own liking. "I have to, I have to um…Thank you?"

She pulled herself from his arms and weaved her way through the crowd, feeling a hundred stares upon her retreating back. Somehow, she managed to keep her head high and her tears from falling. She smiled politely at those who managed to make eye contact, and, when she rounded the corner, stopped until she was sure that no one had followed her. Then, walking there as quietly as she could, she let herself into Mathieu's office.

She was greeted by silence. "Sebastien," she called softly, pleased by the steadiness of her voice.

"That was a quick getaway."

Sparrow smiled. "I hope you're not disappointed in me."

Sebastien laughed. "I'm sure Simone will forgive you."

Sparrow nodded and let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. Words pressed against the inside of her lips, but when she opened them, no sound came out.

"Sparrow?"

"Will you dance with me?"

There was a long and heavy silence before he responded. "Which?"

"Anything. I won't even ask you to bow."

"You've already run off from the party—to Hell with the niceties?"

She nodded. Silently, he stepped towards her, find her hand with his own and wrapping the other around her waist. She fixed her gaze upon his own.

"I couldn't look him in the eye."

"Xavier?"

"Yes, I couldn't look at anyone."

"That's a terrible sign." He began to lead her around the study in a slow waltz. "How many toes do you think you broke?"

"Hopefully not many." She brought her hand up from his shoulder and brushed a curl back from his eyes. "You need a haircut," she said, fingers lingering before she brought them back down.

He scoffed teasingly. "Mademoiselle Sparrow, I'm appalled at your boldness."

From the ballroom, the music picked up its tempo and Sebastien followed suit, Sparrow half-hopping, half-skipping to keep up as he led her around the desk and chairs. She did her best to keep her laughter quiet lest she draw attention from any passing guest. He grinned at her with an almost boyish charm she had never seen before and she allowed herself to be pulled closer to him, maintaining eye contact as he spun her round and round until, at last, they collapsed unceremoniously onto the study's small couch. Instinctively, Sparrow curled her legs up under her skirt and leaned her head against his shoulder, her hand still clasped in his own. He dropped his head to rest it upon hers and ran his thumb along their intertwined hands. For several minutes, they sat in a comfortable silence, listening only to the music leaking in from the ballroom as they fought to regain their breath.

It felt wrong to Sparrow, to feel so at peace here, as though pressed up against Sebastien was where she belonged. It was as though she was stealing a life that wasn't hers to live. But she had told herself that tonight she was worthy, so she curled tighter into him and closed her eyes, pretending this was a life she was entitled to. Sebastien's free arms wrapped around her and she shifted so that her knees leaned into his lap.

Perhaps her father and the girl she used to be were wrong. Perhaps there was a god and he was not dead—he just didn't like her. What other reason in the world was there for her to get a glimpse, a sample of a life so wonderful, always knowing that it could never last? She tilted her head up to look at him and sucked in her breath when she found his eyes mere inches from her own, staring at her with a wonder she didn't deserve. She willed herself not to cry.

"What are you thinking of, little bird?" he asked in a soft voice that consumed her. "What haunts you?"

She stared back at him, willing him to understand. "What happens when I have to be without you." It wasn't a question, not a remark of curiosity over what comes next. What would happen when they parted was a collection of infinite possibilities, all equally terrible because all meant the end of a life she had never been meant to live.

But unlike as he had done so many times before, Sebastien didn't try to tell her she was being silly. He didn't tell her he would never leave her. That, he understood, was not what frightened her most. He dropped his forehead so it rested against hers, his arm still pressed against her back, his hand between her shoulders, fingers just brushing the back of her neck.

"You don't have to," he whispered.

She squeezed his hand. "I know," she said, and they both knew it was a lie.

Still she shut her eyes and allowed herself to breathe him in. She would hate herself for it, that she knew, but she allowed herself to feel the warmth of his breath against her face, the way his nose pressed gently against her own and, for just the briefest moment, she allowed herself to feel his lips ghost over her own.

She thought, _this is almost a dream_. Except her hand in their laps shook along with his own and she could feel his other hand trembling as pressed it into her back, spidering up until he reached the nap of her neck. In that moment, she realized, she loved him. She loved him as he sat there, holding her close, with lips soft and still against her own, waiting for her permission to move them.

But she couldn't. She turned her head up and away from him, his mouth fluttering over her jaw as he registered what happening. She choked back the sob building in her throat as he turned from her and, releasing her, ran a hand through his hair.

"Christ," he swore, and again, "Christ." She never meant to hurt him. She felt her bones crack within her and finally shatter as he turned to her, hands held up between them, palms out in a sign of innocence, apology, and said in a breaking voice, "I'm so sorry. Sparrow, I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn't have…I should have never—"

And, hating herself even more, she reached out and grabbed his hands. "Do not ever, _ever_ apologize to me, Sebastien Enjolras. There is nothing you could ever do to me to warrant an apology." She choked as tears leaked from her eyes. "I can only ask, in this life or the next, that you can one day forgive _me_ for my transgressions."

She wanted him to turn away, to shun her. But instead he looked at her hands covering his and, smiling softly, said, "I hope, little bird, that one day you see yourself as I do."

She did her best to smile back and dropped his hands. "They may have noticed my absence."

He nodded. "Then you should go."

Swallowing, she rose and walked to the door, almost making across the room before she broke completely. She turned back towards him, standing straight, almost statuesque, with her hands at her sides. Were it not for the redness in her face and eyes, and tears streaming down her face, she might have been a painting.

"You promised me," she said, her voice gentle, yet broken, without a hint of accusation. "You promised, Sebastien. I asked you not to love me."

"I know," he said, and the sadness in his voice destroyed her.

"You promised you wouldn't love me."

"I tried."

She nodded. "So did I." She turned back to the door, resting her hand on it until her shaking stopped, knowing Sebastien sat across the room from her, possibly as at war with himself over staying put or running to her as she was. But one day, she knew, she would have to leave his life and return to her own, and she refused to drag him with her when she did.

So with a deep breath, she wiped the tears from her face, and went to rejoin the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stays - just another word for the boning of a corset


End file.
